


One in a Million *ON HOLD*

by ravenclaw_scar



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Spoilers, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Deaf Clint Barton, Hurt Scott Lang, Hurt/Comfort, Kind of AU, Not A Fix-It, Scott Needs A Hug, Scott/Clint centric, because Scott and Clint have storylines too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-05-09 05:17:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14709828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenclaw_scar/pseuds/ravenclaw_scar
Summary: Scott and Clint escape house arrest to join the fight, Steve Rogers and Team Cap can’t catch a break and Tony's just a bit of a dad to Peter. Meanwhile, Thanos is collecting the infinity stones and trying to wipe out half of everyone.Bruce just wants to get the band back together.OR there are 14,000,605 possibilities for the future so being one in a million might just not cut it





	1. 1 in 2 House Arrests end in Broken Arms

**Author's Note:**

> A note on Canon and Characters:  
> I’m ignoring anything that might happen in the new Ant-Man film because I’m writing at least part of this before it comes out  
> If I don’t cover a scene from the film, just assume it happened the way it did in the movie (I don’t want to retell scenes that are no different in the story to the film)  
> Clint is deaf in this to follow the comics more - unless it comes up in conversation, assume most people who knew him beforehand know already  
> Scott might be a little OOC in this - I’m not 100% familiar with the intricacies of his backstory so there might be a couple of changes here and there

The appeal of house arrest had worn off all too quickly, spiralling into endless monotony before the first week was over. Clint found little to entertain him around the ranch which he was supposed to call home but could barely recall a period of more than three days where he hadn’t left the comfort of the modest home in a rush. Of course, he wasn’t going to complain, preferring even the boredom of the ‘middle of nowhere’ to the bed sized cell he’d otherwise be confined to, but he did little to suppress the twitching in his fingers when he thought of a tall building somewhere and his bow and arrow calling out his name.

On the day the silence was shattered, Clint had retreated to the attic (the closest he could get to a rooftop without drawing the attention of the armed guard on the gate outside) and cradled the small flip phone, which was most definitely contraband, in his hands. Although he didn’t understand the numerous rules that were still enforced in his own home, questioning the term ‘deal’ more and more each day, the one that annoyed him the most ruled out contact with almost anyone beyond the few fields surrounding the ranch.

One thing that set the house apart from prison, however, was the reluctance of the officers to search him quite so thoroughly on his first day. And that left him with one, occasionally irritating but otherwise welcome, link to the world beyond his little farm. The time approached the arranged hour even more slowly than usual, Clint’s hands tapping an erratic, absentminded beat on the wooden crates he had crouched between, throwing up a cloud of dust. He wasn’t grateful of the new habit he had picked up since losing his bow, and there was no ‘deal’ that would get him even the most rudimentary arrows to practice with; he hoped his anxious hands would settle down the second he got his hands on anything he could fire, also hoping in the lowest of moods that said weapon would be aimed somewhere in the general direction of the gate. Wishful thinking.

Five minutes before his scheduled appointment, he started the ancient phone up cautiously, smothering the small device in his shirt as it played the usual welcoming sound through its worn speakers and cursed the old technology for its inability to be switched on silently. Then, he cursed his own inability to navigate the settings menu briefly, only to return the blame to the phone in front of him because he sure as hell wasn’t going to ask Scott for help. He kept the phone on for as short a time as possible, never too sure of the details surrounding his house arrest and unwilling to risk something as monumental as a connection to the outside.

Beneath him, two sets of feet ran across the room below, accompanied by playful shouts still blissfully unaware of the whole imprisonment situation, never mind the breaking the rules situation. Now, Clint Barton may have been as assassin in his time, but he would be damned if his kids weren’t raised with a little more civility. He switched his attention to the narrow screen that barely cast a light on the sloping ceiling directly above him and squinted his way through navigating the menu, watching the time at the top of the screen as his finger hovered above the call button. He had one number saved, unwilling to store any of Natasha’s emergency contacts which were lodged in his head. He wanted to talk to her of course, he’d kill (almost) for one of their dry, casual conversations, but he wasn’t putting her anywhere near risk if he could help it. He also didn’t want someone to turn up on his doorstep to break him out, which she would doubtlessly do, probably bringing Cap and his shield along for the ride. That wasn’t part of the retirement deal.

Finally the minute’s wait was up and the next wait for Scott to pick up started. Clint pressed the small phone to his ear, his hand covering it almost entirely and hunched over in his crouched position, listening to the dull ring tone drill into his skull, only adding to the monotony of everything else. A voice interrupted the static, snapping his head upright.

“Clint?” It came from downstairs, not the phone pressed to his ear and sent a curse to the front of his tongue in frustration.

“Shit,” he muttered to himself, cancelling the call quickly and pocketing the phone, pausing for a second to check it would only vibrate if Scott was careless enough to call straight back. That was the closest Clint could get the primitive technology to being silent altogether and it would have to do as the voice continued to call his name.

The living room was cosy and far from the lavish interior of the old Avengers Tower. The Barton’s had none of the expensive tastes, or the money, that Tony Stark furnished his own house with, leaving their living room with a sofa, a television and an old log fire. The fireplace was made of worn bricks and crumbling cement, with a metal guard around the rough bark and wood beneath the chimney and a blunt, red handled axe leant against the log basket, perhaps the closest thing to a weapon Clint could find in the entire house.

The television was on, displaying a news bulletin that looked oddly like the ones he had seen after the New York invasion on the small screen in the shawarma shop they’d found after the long battle. The sound of the newsreader’s voice fell away to nothing but another monotonous tone in the background, Clint’s eyes drawn to the flying ship that dominated the New York skyline and the pile up of crashed cars on every street. He watched the small fires that spread through each corner shop and the smoke that poured out of crushed engines. And then, a photograph appeared on the screen that brought the voice back into focus and the life to his eyes.

“Tony Stark, known to most as Iron Man, is missing. He led the response to this invasion, just years after fending off another invasion with the Avengers. The unidentified ship has since left Earth but Mr. Stark is yet to resurface.”

“Clint?” Laura leant against the windowsill in the living room, trying to keep the frustration from her tone as she tried in vain to get his attention, imploring him not to act impulsively. They’d faced a probably inevitable period of adjustment as he moved home permanently, arguing more regularly than she would have liked over the practicalities of having men with guns at the gate of their house with children to look after and Clint seemed to do his best to not be around most of the time regardless of his house arrest, something that Laura was still impressed by, no matter how angry it made her.

“I should be-” Clint eventually replied, waving his hand towards the television as he turned to her with a stubborn expression on his face and a familiar coldness seeping through his irises. It was the look he got after being called away on a mission by S.H.I.E.L.D, the look he gave her when she attempted to ask him about work, the look she received most days when she tried to talk to him about the avengers.

“No you shouldn’t,” she argued firmly, pushing the door closed without taking her eyes off of him. It was a natural reaction, although she wasn’t sure if she was keeping the kids out of it or trying to keep Clint in. “You said all of this – this avenger stuff – was over now. Two of them aren’t talking, two of them haven’t been on the planet for a while: that’s what you said.”

“I thought the alien invasion stuff was over,” he retorted tiredly, pointing back at the screen again as it cycled through the same footage of destruction and uncomfortable familiarity. Running a hand through his hair, Clint turned away, pulling the phone from his pocket surreptitiously and checking it in a single glance. He had felt it vibrate once, not the pulsing insistence of a call but rather, a text. He faced Laura again swiftly, one hand touch typing a response as his face remained still and unchanging.

Scott: You need to get to a TV asap. Call me.  
Clint: Hoping the escape plans you’ve been talking about had some substance to them. Get out of there and I’ll call you later.

“I need to go,” Clint spoke as he typed, his expression pleading unusually although he knew there was no questioning it; he would be leaving, with or without Laura’s help. She turned away from him herself, letting out a frustrated sigh that echoed around the room for some time. Clint glanced down at the phone again and nodded to himself with a poorly concealed smirk, glancing up at Laura with a straight face as she turned to the door.

“I’m not going to stop you,” she replied in an even tone before adding a muttered afterthought, “But we’re going to need to talk about things when you get back this time. Properly.” Clint sucked in a breath and nodded uneasily, not liking the cool insistence behind her words or the tired expression she wore on her face.

“I know with everything that’s happened that I should be patient with you,” she continued sadly, “But the children will always come first for me, regardless of your priorities. We need to talk about keeping things from each other and what comes first. I don’t know who’s on the end of that phone you use but you seem to put them before our children.” That stung, Clint registered dully, but the continued survey of New York on the screen pulled himself out of his own self-pity. Laura was leaving the living room stiffly, fighting the urge to glance back, aware that Clint could probably be gone by the time her head turned.

“I care about them too, you know, more than anything,” he said as she closed the door, “And all of this is for them, and for you.” The door continued to close but Clint knew she heard and that was enough. He turned his attention to the axe against the log basket and the side window hidden behind floral curtains.

Scott Lang was, once again, a wanted man. He’d been living in a small flat, near enough for Cassie to visit every so often but nearly enough. Clint thought he’d been living with her, seeing her every day but Scott had decided to keep quiet about his situation, sharing the two rooms with the armed guard who alternated between standing at the door and at the window; one becoming another overnight, always leaving Scott with a fresh face to commit to memory. He didn’t like having strangers in his house.

It wasn’t much of a home anyway. The dirt stained windows could only be concealed with threadbare curtains, so thin the light could get through every crack. The kitchen was a corner of the main room, made dark by the low ceilings and second or maybe third hand appliances leant against the wall. He spent most of his time on the sofa which became his bed at night, avoiding the sight of the whitewashed walls by burying his head in some old engineering books he found on a shelf in the bathroom.

His supervisors would leave the flat for thirty minutes a day, giving him enough time to shower and change his clothes, returning with enough food for the next 24 hours. He spent twenty of those precious minutes on the phone with Clint each day, usually weaving a tale or two of the time he was spending with Cassie, never quite sharing the other man’s opinion that house arrest was better than a prison cell. Although he suspected an isolated ranch had more charm than a studio apartment.

That day, he went to use the toilet as the guard left the room, glancing out of the window in the small room with distaste before the opposite flat on the other side of the road caught his eye. He’d never noticed the view of the television he got in the other person’s living room but took his time washing his hands, watching a pixelated news report through squinted eyes. The familiar face of Tony Stark caught his eye as he turned away from his window on the world, spinning him back on his heel. He didn’t have a friendship with Stark before the accords, unlike Clint and the other avengers, but he still couldn’t quite bring himself to hate the man entirely, despite his general attitude and evidently nicer living conditions. With all that taken into account, the news that he was missing piqued his interest and the sight of an alien spaceship in New York almost seemed exciting, if not dangerous.

In no time, he reached behind the basin and retrieved the small phone from the crevice he hid it in, noticing the missed call from Clint with frustration.

“There goes my five minutes of daily entertainment,” he muttered drily to himself before contemplating his options. It would be a bad idea to call back; after all, who knew why he had ended the call. Then again, aliens were on Earth and one of the front line of defences was MIA, so Scott made a compromise and grabbed the shower curtain from its rails.

Clint’s reply interrupted his escape preparations, which were already interspersed with over the shoulder glances to the front door as he felt around the window frame for a catch.

Scott: You need to get to a TV asap. Call me.  
Clint: Hoping the escape plans you’ve been talking about had some substance to them. Get out of there and I’ll call you later.  
Scott: Let’s just say I’m about to be hanging out of a window. Let me know when you’ve got out of there.

He didn’t quite find a locking mechanism but the wood around the glass was rotten in most places and pulled away almost easily with a little bit of force. Scott took a moment to wonder why he hadn’t tried to escape sooner, placing the pane of glass carefully to one side and brushing flakes of white paint on to the floor. He glanced out of the window, looking down to the floor from three storeys up and inhaling strongly through his nose.

“Could really do with the suit,” he muttered under his breath, looking for somewhere to fasten the shower curtain as footsteps sounded on the staircase. “Shit.”

There was no time to run a health and safety check in his head; Scott grabbed the shower curtain under one arm and slipped over the windowsill, planting his feet firmly against the brickwork and gripping the wooden overhang gingerly between his fingertips. He glanced to one side, looking for somewhere to climb to and tentatively reached out for a nearby drainpipe, suppressing the childish realisation that everything was starting to feel a lot like one of those spy films. He clung to the unsteady pipe like a koala, straining his ears to hear the startled comments from his supervisor and ducking his head as far from the window as he could, sliding part of the way down the pipe to conceal himself.

“Emergency report: Subject 347. The detainee has left the building via a front window, estimated time, 10 minutes ago. Requesting backup.” The report came in fits and bursts as the man, who had a mouth particularly prone to frowning, strode up and down the length of the small flat irritatedly. Scott continued his descent as calmly as possible, shifting his hands an inch at a time and following suit with his feet.  
At window height on the second storey, he felt the pipe sway slightly beneath his hands and shifted his weight, again feeling the plastic pull away from the cement beneath it. He shimmied his way a little further down, eyes half-closed in preparation for the inevitable crack that sounded just above him, sending the pipe and a disgruntled Scott Lang to the hard ground below.

His eyes snapped shut on impact, hand reaching up automatically to cradle his head but stopping as a bright flash of pain scalded his eyelids. He groaned under his breath for a second and then sat up with a dizzying scan of his surroundings. The shower curtain and makeshift climbing rope lay nearby and he grabbed it with his healthy arm, pulling himself to his feet with a wince and ducking down the nearby side street.

Keeping one ear listening out for the attentive guard investigating the broken pipe, he tore at the shower curtain and tugged his arm into a poorly tied sling. He gave it the once over briefly, brushing away small shards of plastic and gravel, before pressing it firmly against his body with another soft cry.

“There’s been an alien invasion and I can’t even make it downstairs,” he huffed out in exasperation, limping slightly down the road and ducking down several alleys, hoping that getting himself completely lost would at least out anyone who followed him off the scent.

Clint had pushed himself out of the narrow window fairly easily, pulling the blunt, almost useless axe after him. He had already categorised several of his safe points in his head, mapping out a route from one of his many supply stores to Scott’s house and then on to New York. Every plan started with the long trek through several fields, unavoidable since he couldn’t use the front gate. For a moment, Clint considered making his fantasies come true and almost took on the guard at the fence but one glance back at the house put him off the idea entirely. After all, the ranch was meant to be a world away from his own; it didn’t need infecting with the sort of violence he was trying to shield his children from.

The alarm was sounded as Clint vaulted the dry stone wall between the first field and the second. He only realised because a shot came flying over his head, provoking a string of expletives to erupt from his mouth, joining the ready stream of Russian that fell easily from under his breath. He buried his head against the ground, flattening his body into the tall summer grass and began to army crawl across the next field, zigzagging his way through the crops for safety and never raising his head more than an inch from the freshly watered earth.

Clint continued to move up the field, ducking into the next one along and pausing behind the wall for long enough to see the guard cross into the next field, clearly as unobservant as most of the S.H.I.E.L.D agents Clint had often found himself working with in recent years. Fury would never have employed someone who was fooled by the easiest trick in the book.

His phone was still firmly sat in his trouser pocket, open on the short text conversation with Scott, the last man’s reply still making Clint smile reluctantly. He typed in a new number hesitantly before committing and pressing the phone to his ear. It rang for a long time, the familiar pulse ringing eerily across the field. Clint debated getting further away from the ranch before calling anyone but opted for the simplest deception tactic he could – people always expected you to run as far as you could from the place you were escaping. And after all, Nat had once camped out in a bin about ten metres away from a gang who wanted her dead for several days, so there was living proof of the method working.

“Only you have this number,” the woman herself answered tersely, not pausing for formalities, her tone demanding answers as per usual.

“It’s nice to hear from you too, since you could have been dead and all,” he replied casually although there was a certain sense of truth to his statement, “We’ve got a pretty big 0-8-4 crashing its way through New York.”

“Have we?” Natasha spoke amusedly, “I don’t think anyone had noticed. And I also didn’t realise you were getting involved.”

“Tony’s been a pain in the ass but he’s one of the team,” Clint reasoned seriously, starting to make his way along the border of the field, “And regardless, I just nearly had my head blown off by an undertrained house arrest guard and crawled through a field to avoid actually getting my head blown off so, you know.”

“You just thought you’d check in,” Natasha finished, the sound of a tight lipped smile ebbing into her words. “I’m sorry to disappoint, Barton, but the party just left America. We won’t be able to pick you up for a while, although I think Steve would be glad to have you here.” Clint hid his disappointment under a light sigh, his head turned away from the receiver and leant back against the wall.

“I’ll just go rogue for a little while then,” he replied, “It’s not like I’ll be completely alone.”

“Scott?” Natasha asked perceptively. Clint hummed an affirmative, continuing to move around the perimeter of the field.

“Keep in touch.” Natasha was never one to finish a phone call in anything less than a formal reminder but the familiarity had also become a form of comfort to Clint who smiled lazily as the sun hit his back and the line went dead without waiting for a reply.

“You take care too, Nat.” He dialled Scott’s number immediately after, waiting for almost no time for a response and smiling again at the familiar voice.

“You’re getting slow, Barton.” Scott’s quip was slightly less halfhearted than usual and not without a tight exhale of breath to punctuate it. Clint wondered if he should even ask, given the last text he had received but smirked to himself mischievously.

“How’d that hanging out of a window go?” His question was met with a sheepish laugh on the other end and no real explanation. “You alright?”

“Sprained or broken wrist, couldn’t tell you which,” Scott replied seriously, his voice dropping for a second, “But we have bigger priorities right now. How far are you from New York?”

“Not a million miles,” Clint said cryptically, a sense of duty to protect the location of the ranch still holding his tongue, “I’ll need a bow before I can get out of the state though.” He paused for a moment to consider Scott’s situation, not sure where his suit had been taken upon their arrest and decided to ask.

“Who knows,” Scott replied tiredly, “I’ll make do with anything I can find for now. Like I said, bigger priorities and all that.” His voice was still subdued, barely above a whisper and Clint rolled his eyes to himself slightly.

“Did you really manage to draw that much attention to yourself?” he inquired innocently, hiding a sarcastic remark. As he spoke, three shots fired straight up in the air from a few fields over, sending a flock of birds into the air in a flurried panic of wings. He surveyed his surroundings briefly until he was satisfied the original guard was signalling to the arriving back-up.

“And you’ve really kept your own escape off the grid,” Scott’s taunting drew him back to the phone, “Are you alright?”

“Just warning shots,” he reported, “Everything’s just peachy. I’ll call you when I’ve got a car and we’ll plan from there. Sound good?” Scott agreed and wished him luck, far more than Natasha would ever say at the end of a phone call before hanging up.

Clint glanced up at the midday sky, free of the pollution of the big city and blue with the hue of summer. But somehow, every cloud was a plume of smoke from the city of New York and every sound from the approaching road was the warning hum of an alien spaceship invading the perfect silence.


	2. 9 in 10 Students Choose Homework over Impromptu Skydiving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott is already missing home.
> 
> Bruce makes a swift reentry into the atmosphere.
> 
> Peter wishes he could just do his homework instead.

_“I want to spend more time with you, daddy.”_

_“I know, peanut. Me too… but I have to stay here for now.”_

_“Did you do something bad? Why do the men have guns?”_

Scott closed his eyes tightly against the rolling waves of numbing pain that ripples through his arm whenever it moved in the loose sling. Clint had gone silent for several hours, leaving the injured man with little to do but evade the watchful eyes of CCTV and the authorities. He walked in what he hoped was an unpredictable route, ducking down alleys he didn’t know well enough to register where he was ending up and pausing on streets with names he didn’t recognise.

Eventually, he found himself in more familiar territory, downtown California, the home of Cassie. Scott knew he was reckless and would happily admit the fact when the other avengers called him out on it. He took a minute to glance over his shoulder before walking swiftly down Cassie’s road. In his head, he had set out rules; no lingering at the gate, definitely no contact. He and Clint didn’t need to be caught on an innocent tip-off from a child.

The house was as well kept as it had been when he last saw it. Somehow, the picket fence and neatly lined up plants only left Scott with a hollow feeling, the perfect, well swept steps almost sterile. He glanced up at the familiar curtains on the second floor, a sad smile blossoming on his face as he thought of Cassie, unaware and buried under covers and stuffed toys. Already staying too long at the gate, Scott tilted his head to the pavement and strode away without a glance, his wrist tucked into the folds of his jacket and hair hidden under a cap from a park bench.

He returned to a more commercial area, finding the high streets more suitable for blending into the crowds that still lined the shop windows in the early evening. A television shop across the street caught his eye, still displaying a news bulletin from New York. It was almost laughable really; Californian life continued as if a space ship hadn’t crash landed across the other side of the country. Scott allowed the images to cycle through once or twice, the newsreader repeating the same facts and the same questions, no new information coming to light.

Tony was still missing. The ship had still flown away, leaving destruction in its wake. And Scott was as clueless as ever.

_Earlier that day…_

WStephen Strange descended the stairs of the New York sanctum, his hand brushing the ornate railing of the staircase as his cape swept around his legs. Wong followed close behind, his hands wrung together in front of him.

“Attachment to the material is detachment from the spiritual.”

“But you don’t have enough money for a sandwich?” Strange clarified tiredly, rolling his eyes lightly at the sentiment. “Do you have any money?”

“Two hundred rupees,” Wong began to list, feeling into each of his pockets and trailing off slowly before holding up the solitary note. “Two hundred rupees.”

“How many dollars is that?”  
“One and a half,” Wong replied cheerfully, his mind drifting to the thought of a good sandwich before his eye was caught by Dr. Strange’s frown.

“That’s not even enough for half a sandwich,” he muttered under his breath, watching his companion deflate and opening his mouth to sound off about the fact he didn’t earn some money for protecting the Earth and its numerous magical artefacts.

He was interrupted by a splintering crash in the circular window above them. Glass shards fell to the floor around them, raining down on the wooden flooring and shattering further across the planks. With a glance in Wong’s direction and barely a beat of hesitation, Stephen raised his hands, gold shields appearing in front of them and began to ascend the few stairs that were still intact. A large hole had appeared halfway up the staircase, becoming visible as the streak of light that had followed the destruction died away, leaving the sanctum to return to its usual darkness.

Nestled in the hole in the floor, a man, naked from the waist up and streaked in dirt and wood chippings blinked the disorientation from his eyes and glanced up, arms raised weakly in a peaceful gesture.

“Thanos,” he murmured with what little strength he had left, “Thanos is coming.”

Later on, when Bruce had been helped from the rubble by a disgruntled stranger in a cape, after he had apologised for the damage to the ornate circular window through which he had crash landed, his attention turned back to the name that rested heavily at the forefront of his mind.

“Thanos, you said,” Dr. Strange repeated by way of a prompt. Bruce nodded, pulling on the sleeves of a slightly threadbare suit jacket that Wong had procured from one of the old wardrobes that lined the back of the sanctum. The sleeves came to an end just short of his wrists and the trailing threads scratched slightly at his exposed skin.

“Big, purple guy,” he replied, holding his hand above his head to give some indication of the titan’s height, “Had friends too. They were almost like disciples.” He framed his final statement in a question, one eyebrow raised slightly in uncertainty. Stephen and Wong exchanged a look before the former nodded uneasily, his hands flying protectively to the golden necklace around his neck, fingers fretting around the embellished surface.

“You have associates here, do you not, Dr. Banner?”

Bruce took a moment to contemplate. It had been years since he had set foot on Earth, leaving him to only wonder where his fellow avengers were. Had they replaced him? Or perhaps just moved on with a Hulk-sized but nonetheless insignificant hole in the team. He looked forward to seeing them again, the memory of Thor’s almost certain death still raw in his head, the other guy still feeling slightly with a subdued roar of anger that echoed in the base of his skull.

“Tony Stark,” he settled on the first name that came to mind; egotistical but probably the least likely to give him a good telling off for his reckless behaviour. No, he’d leave the ‘Don’t commandeer a plane and go to space’ talk to Steve. “Iron man?”

Dr. Strange looked a little blank but glanced to Wong who was stood quietly, shrouded in shadows. Bruce barely noticed his fluid hand gestures before a portal, flecked with gold sparks around its edges, materialised in front of him. The golden frame enclosed a postcard view of Central Park in bright sunlight. It was a view that Bruce had missed in his time away from his home. Not just the sun and the familiar faces, but the trees and greenery that surrounded the lake in front of him. And there stood Tony, sporting a couple of grey hairs and an updated piece of tech in his chest but otherwise wearing the same self-assured expression that sat so comfortably on his face. Even when faced with randomly appearing portals, it seemed.

“Tony Stark?” Dr. Strange stepped through the border with the ease of a professional, his words still carrying as if he were in the sanctum and not a couple of miles away. Bruce took his time, watching the way the grass sprung up behind the doctor’s feet as he strode away towards Tony. His mind returned to the conversation, hearing Stark’s usual questioning tone.

“Who’s we?”

“Hi, Tony.” He emerged behind Stephen, half concealed by the burgundy cape and half blinded by the foreign sensation of the sun on his skin. Tony looked taken aback, something he rarely showed in full force, especially not in front an unfamiliar face.

“Bruce.” Tony did not seem angry or worried, despite Pepper’s observant sweep of Bruce’s clothing and then the glance she threw in his direction. “How are you?”

Bruce stepped forwards hesitantly, never one for close physical contact, but hugged him nonetheless, his arms circling Tony’s shoulders tentatively. After a second, he felt Tony’s arms rest against his back and his head come to rest against his shoulder.

“That bad, huh?” Then the teasing tone was back and the easy smirk returned to his face. Bruce felt a sheepish smile fleet across his face before he stuffed his hands into his pockets and gestured towards the portal and the view of the gloomy sanctum.

“I’ll tell you when we have time,” he promised earnestly before turning his head slightly towards Pepper in apology, “But we really need your help.” And if he hadn’t been glancing in her direction, he might have missed Pepper’s microscopic sigh in defeat.

“At the birth of the universe, six stones were formed,” Wong explained back in the sanctum, “Each held great power, too strong for most to wield. But together, the user has the power to, quite literally, hold the fate of every world that exists in the palm of their hands.”

Tony had been slouched restlessly on a bench that was tucked away against one wall. He stood anxiously and paced the short distance between the staircase and the front door.

“The mind stone, the power stone, the space stone, the reality stone, the soul stone,” Dr. Strange listed before waving a hand in front of the Eye of Agamotto and exposing a glowing green gem, “And the time stone.”

“Thanos, right?” Tony turned to Bruce as if Strange had not spoken, the fading glimmer of distrust in his eyes. Dr. Banner nodded before pushing himself up from the wall he leant against and holding his hands out towards Tony.

“He’s a plague. Thanos invades any planet he wants, takes anything he desires and leaves destruction in his wake. Not only that, he takes lives too, Tony, half the population of every planet he visits.”

“With the power of the infinity stones, he could achieve his mass culling with a snap of his fingers,” Dr. Strange interjected persuasively, “Your friend, Dr. Banner, says he already has his hands on two.”

“The power stone, which he had already, and the space stone. Loki gave that one to him,” Bruce replied softly. Tony’s head twisted towards him sharply at the mention of the familiar name but he looked away, feigning disinterest a second later.

“We know of the location of one,” Strange continued, gesturing to his chest, “And we must do anything in our power to protect it. Thanos will come here sooner or later.” Tony scowled, never one to take orders from anyone, only occasionally extending the courtesy to Captain America although not without a muted complaint.

“Shouldn’t we destroy the stone?” Tony asked eventually, his tone challenging and bordering on dangerous. Strange exhaled quietly to himself and then shook his head firmly.

“With the power he already has, we need every tool we have to face him,” he explained patiently, “We’re looking at loss of life on a scale hitherto undreamt of.”

“Did you seriously just say ‘hitherto undreamt of’?” Tony smirked to himself, leaning against one of the older looking artefacts. Wong stayed concealed in the shadows although his hands seemed to itch at his sides to retrieve the ageing antique from its pedestal.

“Are you seriously leaning on the Cauldron of the Cosmos?” Strange replied easily, the tails of his coat whipping up to slap at Tony’s wrists. The latter stepped away from the stone pillar and its artefact, his hands raised in mock surrender and he picked up his pacing regime in front of the staircase.

“The mind stone is with Vision,” he offered up, aiming his observation towards Bruce upon the blank looks he received from the other men in the room, “But he went off the grid a week ago.” Bruce leant forward slightly, rocking on his heels in despair.

“Off the grid?” he echoed incredulously, “You’ve lost another one of your bots?”

“He’s far more advanced than anything else I’ve made before,” Tony snapped in return, “We’d come to an arrangement: he checks in every so often and I leave him alone. I suppose there’s one person who could find him. Steve.”

The syllable hung uncomfortably in the air, as if if carried far more weight than Bruce could comprehend. The recently returned man held his hands up in question, a pit of unease settling in his stomach at the story he was about to hear.

“We’re not speaking right now,” Tony explained, speaking quickly like a child who knows they’ve done something wrong, “The avengers broke up, Bruce. We all had to choose a side.” Bruce discarded the final sentence and stood in front of Tony in disbelief.

“Broke up?” he echoed dumbly, “Like a band? Are we on hiatus now?”

“Indefinitely, it seems,” Tony replied quietly, reaching into his pocket to fumble with a simple flip phone, his fingers reluctant to pull it out, despite the fact it had resides in his chest pocket for the last two years. Subconsciously, he supposed, he had always had the intention of calling him eventually. Something would come up to force them back together; there was no way a man as proud as Tony, or wounded as Steve, would actively seek forgiveness. But it would be earned, in some hypothetical battle.

“Thor’s gone,” Bruce whispered, his voice cracking slightly, “He’s gone and it doesn’t matter who’s speaking to who. We need Steve, as much as we need you, Tony. And anyone else we can find.”

Tony quickly found the solitary number in the phone and his finger hovered above the finalising button reluctantly. Despite using the phone as a peace offering in his head, he’d never wanted to be the one to use it first. Maybe it was a test, psychologically, between them. Who would break first? Who would get themselves into a big enough mess that they need the other’s help? Finally, Tony reasoned that this was definitely not his mess alone, and therefore he had every right to call in a favour; on behalf of the planet, and not himself, of course.

A well-timed car crash and a series of panicked shouts saved Tony from making the call. He pocketed the phone loosely in his shirt and jogged towards the door. On the street outside there was an air of tension that hung thickly over the piling up traffic, a whisper of chaos carried on the warm breeze of a previously nice day. The summer air soured rapidly as an imposing shadow began to encroach on the pavement in front of them. Wong and Strange were already on the street, their eyes aimed upwards. Tony followed suit and watched as a spaceship came to rest on the next street across from them, all but the very top disappearing behind the rooftops and chimney pots.

“I didn’t realise we were talking such a tight schedule,” Tony commented drily before nodding his head towards the action and glancing at Bruce, “It’s just like old times, right?”

Old times turned into wildly outnumbered pretty quickly. It wasn’t long before Bruce found himself back in Central Park, with half a car for company and a bruised ego. He mentally scolded the other guy, receiving nothing in way of reply and finally noticed the general quiet that had settled on his brain. Not that Hulk was a constant wall of sound in his head, but it was at least 90% of the time. And now, silence. Almost as disconcerting as having a voice in your head, Bruce decided before a streak of red and gold crash landed against a tree next to him.

“Tony!”

Stark brushed himself off briefly, his face plate folding away to reveal a familiar smile that often followed him into combat. He took in Banner’s more rugged appearance and frowned to himself.

“No luck?” he asked before answering his own question, “I really wish you hadn’t embarrassed be back there, man. I feel like the wizard was expecting big things.” Bruce shrugged helplessly, reaching into his mind for the readily available store of anger but receiving no bite, his baited line left to float uselessly in the water. The green tinge crept up the side of his neck, the veins expanding a little before deflating again as the Hulk drew back.

“Squidward’s got the wizard,” Tony said sharply, pointing to a floating mass shrouded in red slowly retreating down a nearby road, “Keep working on it.” He fired his boosters into the ground, leaving a patch of blackened earth and the smell of slightly burned grass in his wake. Bruce sat on a fallen tree trunk and closed his eyes, conjuring the strongest image of anger in his mind. Hulk resisted.

Peter Parker leant his head against the cooling glass of the school bus. Ned had relented eventually, his eternal well of spider based questions drying up earlier than usual as his friend only hummed noncommittal responses. Peter now toyed with the strap of his backpack, patting the material and picturing the suit stuffed beneath his books with a smile. The bus had just reached the halfway point of Peter’s favourite bridge to climb at night when an eruption of orange caught his eyes.

Everyone else on the bus was half asleep or otherwise engaged in conversation but Peter’s head now strained against the glass to see the cloud of smoke settle slowly across several blocks of downtown New York. He patted Ned’s elbow absentmindedly and turned slowly in his seat.

“I need to to cause a distraction,” he instructed briefly, watching his friend’s eyes light in excitement with a grin of his own, “Just for a second.” Without a beat Ned was out of his seat and shouting.

“We’re all gonna die!” He seemed to spot the spaceship a moment later because his face went slack and he pointed in numb disbelief to the back window of the bus. Peter was tempted to stay around and watch, always wanting to enjoy the aftermath of one of Ned’s famous distractions but he forced himself to tug on the red mask and fired his webbing at the fire exit handle.

Minutes later, he was swinging beneath the metal railings of the bridge, feet skimming the water underneath him.

Tony found himself pressed against a familiar fountain, the water spraying his suit harmlessly as one of Thanos’ henchmen continued to juggle Strange’s limp body and Tony’s struggling one. A familiar sound of rushing air, followed by a flash of red caught his eye as white webbing wrapped around the car that pinned him to the water. Peter landed a second later in front of him, bouncing on the balls of his feet in a way that stirred something inside of Tony warmly, reminding him of his own enthusiasm at a young age. Of course, his own dad had done little to nurture that interest in the world, but he always thought to himself, in private, that maybe he could do a better job.

“Alright, Mr. Stark?” He sounded a little breathless and had definitely had to swing several blocks to reach them, but Peter’s voice was still light and full of excitement. A perfect reminder of his age, Toby thought bitterly, making a mental note to get him out of harm’s way as soon as possible. “What’s going on?

“Aliens have arrived from space to steal a necklace from a wizard,” he summarised, standing up from the fountain and pointing down a particularly rugged road. One side of windows had blown out completely, leaving glass shattered across both the road and the interior of the building. It looked thankfully deserted, although the road was lined with hastily abandoned cars, forming an all too authentic replica of the last battle and the chitauri invasion.

“I’m on it,” Peter replied knowingly, swinging himself into the air and balancing for a moment on an overturned lorry. He set off down the decrepit road, using lampposts and building debris to launch him closer to the floating body of the ‘wizard.’

He pursued it to a column of blue light, shooting a web that stuck to the man enclosed by his cape and tugging tightly. The ‘alien,’ Ebony Maw, noticed the blur of red come up short behind him and strengthened his grip on Dr. Strange, watching as the boy who perched on top of a streetlight was slowly pulled after them, calling out slightly as he swung below their rapidly rising figures.

“They’re beaming us up, Mr. Stark!”

“On my way, kid.” Tony disengaged from his battle with the other imposter, watching as Wong sent him through a portal with satisfaction. After all, there were far fewer lives to be concerned for in the North Pole. He shot after the spaceship as it started to soar into the air at an alarming rate.

“Give me something to work with,” he muttered to the suit impatiently, feeling the thrusters in his feet power up and accelerate him towards the spherical ship. He kept an eye on the air level readout on his display, restlessly trying to push himself closer to the ship as the lower door closed behind Strange’s floating body.

“Let go of the ship, kid. You can’t breathe up here.”

Peter felt the air thin noticeably, Stark’s warning falling on deaf ears as he tugged the mask from his face and inhaled hungrily. Even without the fabric of the mask, he felt the air fizzle away to nothing in his lungs and he gulped another breath, focusing on Stark’s shouts from below.

“I’ll catch you,” he was repeating over and over, “You have to let go.”

With a final breath, Peter let his hand drop to his side and his stomach went plummeting to Earth, leaving his body to spiral nauseatingly for a few seconds. Something closed around his back as he flailed his arms in the chilling wind and he thought for a minute that Tony had caught him before a familiar suit closed around his windmilling limbs. Peter caught himself on the base of the ship and hung in wait of Tony, watching the suit get closer.

“You did great,” Stark’s voice was clearer in the updated suit, “But I’m going to have to send you back now. The grownups can handle it from here.”

“No, wait-”

A parachute deployed, sending Peter back towards Earth at a slower pace, giving him just enough time to plant a hand on the back of the ship and hold on. He closed his eyes and hauled his body upright, detaching the parachute and watching it lazily begin the scarily long descent to the ground alone. His fingers gripped the ship shakily and he forced his eyes away from the no longer visible roofs below him, refusing to wonder if Stark had installed a backup parachute. You know, for all those times you find yourself clinging to a spaceship having removed your main parachute? And despite the fact he’d been dreading it all week, the homework Peter had left until the last minute, that now sat in another discarded backpack, seemed like a much more appealing option.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, again, for reading!
> 
> It was so nice to see the kudos and comments on the last chapter, and I’m glad to see I’m not the only one missing Scott and Clint!
> 
> This chapter focused on a couple of other people. I tried to work in a couple of quotes and references to the film whilst also adding bit of a twist to the plot. This will definitely happen more often in later chapters; I’m just using the start of the film as a foundation for my own story.
> 
> Let me know what you thought :)


	3. 4 in 5 Heroes Have One of Those Backstories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Guardians are still one big, dysfunctional family
> 
> Scott and Clint continue to run from the law
> 
> And Bruce starts to realise that some bands just aren’t getting back together

—SPACE—

Peter Quill patted the armrests of his seat in time with a particular favourite song of his, Rubber Band Man. The music, his only existing connection to Earth, had become more than a life line, something to hold on to that enforced his Terran heritage and distanced him from his dad, if that was something that man could even be called. Sometimes Quill would catch Gamora watching him as his head leant backwards tiredly, ears covered by the battered headphones that used to slip from his young head as a child. Very occasionally, Rocket would glance at him with the same frown, masked in an instance with an irritable grimace and some complaint that tailed off quickly into nothing. And Peter didn’t really understand it; of course, they were concerned about him and rightfully so, he had killed his father after all. But Rocket was always quick to remind anyone that everyone had ‘people who died’ and Quill was surely no exception to that rule. The raccoon was far from friendly in almost all other situations, but those few glances left the young man with a lot to think about.

Peter was distracted by the electronic sounds of Groot’s latest hobby, a pixelated, and oversimplified version of the galactic battles they had faced themselves; the likes of Yondu and Ronin reduced to pulsating alien heads that danced left and right across the screen, pulverised in seconds by a single, bullet-like square. If only it could be that easy in real life. 

The tree, now deeply settled into his ‘difficult teenager’ phase, lounged in his chair, firmly refusing to wear his seatbelt and grumbling the same three words under his breath as Rocket tried to engage him in conversation. Despite there being a much more exciting, real life version of his game just beyond the expansive front window of their spaceship, the adolescent refused to express any concern for the distress signal they were following up, sighing and muttering under his breath in a snarky tone he could only have learnt from Rocket.

Gamora was equally as irritable, fed up of justifying why they were following a distress signal to Rocket who still found little reason to do anything besides the motivation of money. She looked to Quill for help who turned around in his seat and stared pointedly at Rocket.

“We’re the good guys now,” he repeated the same mantra he tended to start every pep talk with nowadays, “And hey, maybe there’ll be some grateful, rich, thankful, definitely rich stranded people there who need a lift home. And maybe, because they’re rich and grateful, we might just make a bit of money.” Gamora tutted under her breath and he quickly mouthed an apology, tilting his head in the raccoon’s direction and rolling his eyes knowingly, all the whilst hoping they were about to cross paths with some wealthy individuals. He did notice, however, that Drax’s head lifted at the potential promise of money and Quill suspected that he’d been zoning out again.

“Where’s the money?” Suspicions confirmed.

“No money yet, Drax, just a distress signal which sucks for the people there, but every cloud has a silver lining. For us, at least.” Another eye roll in Gamora’s direction; and Peter’s definitely not getting tired of catering to everyone’s motivations.

“So why don’t we catch the clouds and sell them for scrap?” 

“Brilliant,” Rocket murmured under his breath with a huff of a laugh. Peter was tempted to join in but hummed in noncommittal agreement with Drax, far beyond the patience of explaining every expression and hand gesture to him. Life was too short.

The previous emptiness of space in front of them vanished abruptly. The ship tilted on its axis to dodge a belt of asteroids and the guardians found themselves right in the middle of the distress signal. The darkness around them was littered with the remains of a ship and a big one from the look of it. The metal carcass was strewn across the vacuum in pieces and if he strained to see, Peter could just pick out what looked like bodies some distance away. He peered through the windshield of their ship, his stomach sinking slightly at the sight, far from a rescue mission and more of a clean up operation. So much for the wealthy people in need of a lift.

“We may be too late for the saving lives part of being good,” Rocket commented sarcastically, although even his tone was muted slightly in sick awe. He thumbed the rocket blaster strapped into his holster and pictured the size of weapon needed to blast such a big ship out of the air. And maybe his motivation behind such a thought was the immediate yearning to have his own thumb on the trigger, but even he couldn’t hide a small shred of sympathy for the slowly disappearing figures that floated through the minefield of debris.

“Who could have done this?” Mantis asked hesitantly, “And so quickly? We responded to the call almost immediately.” 

Peter opened his mouth to reply, to suggest something unlikely but maybe comforting to the stunned Mantis when an exclamation of surprise snapped his mouth shut. He turned back around to face the front window, drawing his head back against his seat with a far too high-pitched scream of his own as the closed eyes of a god-like warrior met his widely opened ones. The man had a metal patch covering one eye and was dressed in some sort of armour. His face and hands were firmly planted against the glass of the ship, splayed out as if he had caught them as they moved towards him. Gamora shifted in her chair, equally uncomfortable, and opened her mouth a few times to speak without letting any words escape her.

“Is he still alive?”

—NEW YORK, EARTH—

Bruce sat on the still splintered stairs of the sanctum. Wong had disappeared into the back of the ancient building, vaguely waving his hands towards the front door and mentioning a need to strengthen the protective wards around the boundary. The sound of whining car alarms was yet to cut out, intermittently peppering the stagnant air with harsh calls, sometimes two activating at once, adding to a cacophony of unanswered SOS requests.

He didn’t like to think about the few hours that had sent Earth reeling back to 2012 and the Chitauri invasion. The sight of the street outside sent him careening down memory lane with no brakes, flashes of shattered glass and the screams of helpless civilians ringing around his head, louder than the still subdued roars of the Hulk. Bruce had never addressed the fallout from New York head on, leaving the same regrets and rage in a pot that he drew from to channel the other guy, but he couldn’t ignore the similarities, from the abandonment of Pepper to Tony’s hero complex kicking in. The only thing that set the two events apart significantly was the fact that Iron Man hadn’t crash landed in the middle of a broken street, unconscious but triumphant. There was no traipse through the abandoned roads in search of food or the borderline hysterical, adrenaline fuelled tales of one crazy event or another.

Clint hadn’t dived backwards off a building. Natasha hadn’t taken on five at once. Thor and Cap hadn’t perfected their hammer-shield manoeuvre perfectly, wiping out an entire block. None of them were there to recount a glimpse of green before one of the ships came crashing out of the sky followed by a swatting hand. And Tony hadn’t crash landed in the middle of a broken street, returning from a brief trip through some dark hole in the sky as if he’d been on holiday in the Bahamas.

Instead, Bruce was alone, Thor was floating somewhere in space, Steve and Tony weren’t talking and who knew where the two S.H.I.E.L.D agents had got to. No, Bruce was left alone with a flip phone he had miraculously retrieved from beneath a pile of rubble, its screen still dimly displaying Steve Roger’s number. 

The phone took its time connecting, the dialling tone echoing endlessly around the cavernous room of the sanctum. Bruce waited impatiently, pacing in front of the broken staircase in time with the pulsing tone.

“Tony! I’m glad to hear you’re ok, the news reports we’re seeing are saying you’re missing,” Steve’s voice finally cascaded across the connection, his relief evident behind slightly guarded words.

“Not Tony, unfortunately,” Bruce replied reluctantly, hearing a microscopic sigh that could easily be mistaken for a spike of static in the broken line.

“Dr. Banner?” Steve asked uncertainly, a familiar formality quirking the corner of Bruce’s mouth upwards slightly.

“Cap,” he replied, “I’ve not heard half of what I’m sure is a long story but I need you to do me a favour and get over this argument I’ve been hearing about. Tony’s got himself a one way ticket to who knows where, I’m stranded in New York and Vision needs some protection.”

“Well I can solve two of those problems,” came the response, still tipped with relief, “Nat and I can locate Vision and Wanda. Meanwhile, make your way to Upstate New York. There’s a new Avengers facility there that we can set up in. If I were you, I’d go along with any mention of ‘the Accords’ until we arrive unless you want to get yourself locked up somewhere and we’ll speak further when Vision is safe.” Bruce marvelled at Steve’s ability to trust wholeheartedly, not even questioning the reason behind his short instructions and organising himself in seconds. Tony could learn a lot.

“I’ll take your word for it,” he said a little drily, making a mental note to bring up the accords as soon as he got to the facility, out of curiosity above being problematic, “Just make sure that the stone in Vision’s head is kept safe; it is far of something far bigger and more powerful, than the gem by itself.”

“Understood,” Steve replied with a raised voice as the commotion of people rushing to get ready for a mission invaded the call slightly, “I’ll get back to you in a few hours. Vision was in England, the last I checked in with him but he may have moved on since then. It could take us some time to locate him, so don’t worry if we’re late to return.”

“I won’t. Take your time if you have to,” Bruce said, despite a sudden need to see Steve and Natasha alive and untouched by a war that threatened to spread across the planet, “It’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“I’m glad to have you back Bruce,” Steve said suddenly, his voice lowering as he seemed to step away from the action on his end of the line.

“I would say I’m glad to be back if this hadn’t started five minutes after I returned,” Bruce replied with a light laugh before turning serious again. “Be careful out there.”

“You too.”

The line went dead and Bruce sat far too long with the phone pressed to his ear. He categorised the known locations of each of his friends in his head for a moment, pausing on the enigmatic Clint, now knowing that Nat was with the captain but uncertain of her partner’s elusive movements.

—WESTERN AMERICA—

Clint reached a shallow ditch a couple of miles away from the ranch. It had taken him a few hours to avoid the sudden influx of guards who marched the perimeter of the nearby fields, but he finally got to his first stash of supplies. He knelt lowly, surrounded by weeds and unkempt grass, and retrieved a modestly sized backpack. Immediately, he reached into the front pocket and retrieved a pair of pliers, cutting away the tracker from his ankle. Strapped between the handles of the bag, one of his finest spare bows lay, the arch perfectly angled and the frame weighted precisely; admittedly one of Tony’s passion projects, but that wasn’t going to stop Clint from using it.

He swung the bag over one shoulder and tucked the weapon under his right arm, dumping the blunt, good for nothing axe under a particularly fierce mass of brambles. He debated taking the long walk to his next closest safe house where he knew he had a car but instead headed for the nearby woodland, hoping an old contact still considered themselves a contact.

The trees were densely packed together although there was a clear path to follow if you knew where to look. The boughs hung low and scratched at Clint’s face as he ducked beneath them, brushing their slender fingers away insistently. He passed a metal grating that marked a crossroads in the poorly marked pathway and, choosing the even more jungle-like trail, he continued down it with his head ducked away from the tangle of branches and twigs.

Reversed behind a curtain of trailing ivy stood an old Range Rover, whose bonnet was dented and scratched by the very branches surrounding it and with doors that seemed to hang to the metal frame by a very tenuous thread. Clint had parked it there with an old accomplice many years before, the two of them sharing the hiding spot and agreeing to share the car itself if either of them ever needed it. This associate had never given the appropriate signal to indicate that the car had been taken, but part of Clint had always assumed the trusty vehicle would be gone if he ever went looking.

He hot-wired the battery and listened to the unhappy sound of a decade old engine starting up with relief, the prospect of a ten mile walk no longer occurring to him. The worn dial showing the fuel was lit all the way to one side, indicating that he was running on a full tank. Of course, that was espionage 101, Clint wouldn’t have expected anything less. Always run on a full tank of gas.

The path beyond the curtain of ivy opened up significantly, leading to a dirt track in no time at all. Beyond that, a proper road would lead away from the ranch, far from the circumference of the guards’ search boundary, Clint suspected. This didn’t stop him from only tentatively illuminating the headlights to half brightness to traverse the knots of branches, squinting slightly into the deepest shadows but the built in paranoia of any seasoned S.H.I.E.L.D agent warned him of being too liberal with the lighting. Not that he would hesitate to run over one of those goons at this point, but Clint was hoping to avoid murder for the time being.

The light was dying away by the time he reached the open road, heading in the general direction of California and a cold, tired and definitely grumpy Scott Lang.

Scott had found a bench in what he pessimistically hoped was a fairly secluded location, without it being one of those seedy areas that carried sky high crime rates and an almost certain promise of a mugging. He could do without an altercation with a permanently intoxicated, yet somehow very good at aiming, low-life criminal, his arm still complaining loudly with each movement. It was ironic really, he decided in a state of pain-induced hysteria, that, with a reputation of being good at getting into places, he had been defeated whilst getting out of one. That one would bruise the ego for a while.

He also had plenty of reasons to be in a bad mood. The warm summer’s day had faded to an uncharacteristically cool night and it must have been late because it was pitch black, despite the late scheduled sunset and fast approaching solstice. Scott was determined not to sleep, although this admission only soured his mood further, and his sleep deprived mind had a tendency to think of Cassie and home, two things he didn’t need reminding of on an icy bench in the middle of nowhere. He had spent a day evading capture, the tracker embedded into his ankle effectively shooting a beacon of light into the fading sky, illuminating it with fireworks. He might as well have been stood on his bench yelling his name, for all the effort this futile secrecy involved.

Scott was toying with the small phone when it started ringing, half out of boredom and half because he thought it might provoke some sort of reaction. It did, and he wondered for a moment if he had developed some sort of mind control powers, he was that far buried into his head, when he dismissed the idea and picked up the phone.

“Clint?” He glanced again over his shoulder, trying to calmly avoid the pools of light below street lamps without raising suspicions.

“I’m coming into California now,” came the reply briskly, “Where are you right now?” Scott glanced around the unfamiliar park for a defining feature, standing up from the bench as he caught sight of two figures turning on to the end of the same road.

“I’m on a bench, in a park,” he began unhelpfully, hearing the tired but still amused laugh of Clint muted over the small speaker, “I can have a look for a road sign or something.” He set off, legs protesting creakily and stretched his back stiffly. There was an intersection of roads to one side of the park and he vaulted the nearby wall with a poorly stifled grumble of complaint and reeled off a list of roads.

“I don’t suppose that’s much help if you don’t have a map,” he finished with a sigh but Clint cut him off in disagreement.

“I know where you are. I’m close,” he replied firmly, “I did a stint here for a couple of months undercover – got to know the roads around there pretty well. You really picked a bad area to hide out in.” Scott immediately spun on his heel a few times to glance down each street, his suspicions confirmed and a bad day getting spectacularly worse very quickly.

“I knew it,” he muttered half to himself, “Nothing is going my way today. You know, we would both still be in our homes having our usual great times with shitty armed agents at our doors if it weren’t for these aliens.” Clint smirked to himself lightly and continued to traverse the familiar streets with ease. He came up to the intersection before Scott’s and noticed two figures at the edge of the road and only later seeing Scott, pacing as he waited on the corner of a small alleyway, one arm tied in a loose sling against his body and the other messing his hair up anxiously as the phone balanced between his shoulder and ear.

Scott turned around as the spotlight lit his shadow from behind and squinted through the harsh white light to identify Clint before moving cautiously towards the car, his shoulders loosening slightly. Clint drove down to the end of the narrow street, the car barely fitting beneath the precarious fire exit that climbed down the cracked brickwork, and hopped out of the driver’s seat, tilting his head towards the back of the car, opening the back door and pointing to it insistently as Scott threw backward glances over his shoulder.

“I’ve got a first aid kit to patch up your arm and we need to lose that tracker,” he muttered, pulling the bag from the back of the car and holding up a small green pouch. Scott brightened a little, his head lifting from its position against his chin and he sat on the edge of the car exhaustedly. Clint busied himself with loosening the sling, which upon closer inspection seemed to be made of a harsh plastic material.

“Shower curtain,” Scott explained as if it were obvious when he raised an eyebrow in question. His confusion still left unanswered, Clint continued to address the bruising wrist. He rolled Scott’s sleeve up gently and gingerly tested areas of his arm with his fingers.

“Sprained,” he informed him, his nose wrinkled slightly, “A pretty bad one though.”

“The drainpipe was less sturdy than I expected it to be,” Scott exhaled sheepishly, “But at least it isn’t broken, right?” Clint nodded cheerfully although everything else seemed to be adding up against them as he wrapped the wrist up tightly and rested it back against Scott’s chest. He moved over to roll the bottom of Scott’s trousers up, surprised not to find a similar model of tracker fastened to his ankle. He did notice, however, that Scott shifted very slightly on the seat and squirmed uncomfortably.

“Where’s your tracker?” Clint asked with a sinking feeling in his stomach. Scott rested his heel on the car and gestured to a small black circle just below his skin, face paling even in the harsh moonlight.

“We have to cut it out, right?” he checked uneasily, instantly making Clint glad he hadn’t had to suggest it himself. He held up a narrow surgical scalpel by way of reply and bit the inside of his mouth thoughtfully.

“Just a quick sting and a bit of blood,” he told the other man under his breath, angling the scalpel above the tracker and resting the blade against Scott’s skin for a second, almost giving him a chance to back out.

“Ok, I’m ready,” Scott replied eventually, the knuckles of his healthy hand white with the effort of clenching into a tight fist, balled against his sling. He closed his eyes as Clint made the two incisions he had learnt to perform to remove similar devices in his training. The small piece of black plastic was soon crushed beneath the sole of his boot and a bandage wrapped around Scott’s ankle but Clint still couldn’t help but wonder why their two situations of house arrest had been treated so differently.

“Now we’ve just got to get halfway across the country without being caught by the government,” he listed off with another, less positive grin, pushing his questions to one side. Scott returned it humorously and pushed himself up from the makeshift seat with a slight sway in his step, bandaged ankle hovering above the ground uncertainly. Blinking away sleep, he yawned and then nodded.

“Are we taking shifts driving?” he asked with his hand held out, as if to take the key.

“You can drive when you’ve slept,” Clint said pointedly, “You’ve already got one less arm and an injured leg; the least you need to drive is open eyes.” Scott didn’t object for long and seemed to be asleep before his head rested against the window of the passenger seat. The sight made Clint smile to himself slightly, reminiscing about his drive to recruit the other man a couple of years before. He suspected neither of them imagined finding themselves in the situation they were in now, Scott had maybe even treated the call to action as an exciting opportunity to do something new. Maybe he was regretting that now. His previously contoured forehead, wrinkled with the effort of avoiding the guards all day relaxed into something more resembling open plains and his breathing, stilted before by the pain in his wrist, evened out into a steady rhythm.

Clint drove down several detours on his way out of the city, leaving via an odd intersection and later rejoining busier roads. He didn’t want to take any chances; judging from the state of New York, they could do without facing an invasion with people on their own side aiming for their heads. But they’d cross that bridge if they got to it, he realised, because they were getting to the point of no return, when small disagreements over house arrests would become insignificant very quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is where my plot starts to diverge a little. Basically, there are a couple of main areas that are going to change  
> 1) Scott and Clint exist in this universe :)  
> 2) Bruce is going to do his own thing for a little while  
> 3) Some of the fallout from Civil War May be different to canon but I’ll explain all that in exposition in later chapters
> 
> Thank you for reading as always :)


	4. 1 in 2 Nightmares Never Seem to End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott tells the truth
> 
> Bruce reflects on the past
> 
> Clint wants to be taken seriously (come on, he needs the high security guards too)

There are two types of nightmares. The first; a heart pounding drop from a cliff, helplessly watching the ground approach, faster and faster, until the grey blurs into some colourless space between awake and dead on the pavement. They’re the nightmares that end abruptly, with a sharp inhalation and darkness consuming widely opened eyes.

Then there’s the slower ones. The ones that make you wait, drop you in a forest where every howling scream of wind could be the last thing you hear. No surprises, no soundless screams catching behind an invisible barrier of reality. Paralysing, heart stopping.

Clint drove through the night, occasionally glancing across at Scott who slept restlessly with his head against the window. His hair, dulled from his confinement in the small apartment, rested limply across his face, tousled from his minute twitches and head shaking. The archer followed signs down deserted highways, because, hey, the world might be ending in New York, but no one would be crazy enough to be out at 3 am, barely lit by the weak sun rearing its head beyond the horizon.

Scott’s eyes flickered open and his breaths halted for a microsecond. Then, breathing as subtly as he could through his nose, the bleary eyed man took that first relieved breath of fresh air. He didn’t move, shuffling down in his seat and replacing his head against the cold glass crookedly, eyes staying open and staring at the flashes of fields and trees that lined the road. He didn’t seem to see them, gaze unfocused and tense.

Clint watched him with narrowed eyes but didn’t say anything. He got those nightmares frequently and the release of waking up was similar to the feeling of Loki’s sceptre relinquishing its hold on him. When he was at home, Laura would do the same, watching him subtly out of the corner of her eye but letting him wake himself up properly, with a glance around the room for a sense of familiarity.

Yeah, Scott would move soon.

And then he didn’t.

“You awake, man?” Clint risked the question. Scott nodded his head against the glass and pushed himself away from the door with a shallow breath as his wrist jolted against his chest. “Everything alright?”

Scott’s eyes took on the quality of a rabbit caught in headlights, widening for a moment as if faced with one of those bright interrogation lights. He nodded again, swallowing the roughness from his throat and smiling a lopsided smile that missed his eyes by a few miles.

“Well, I’ve slept in worse places.” His voice was still a little hoarse and he coughed softly to himself. Clint tapped his hands on the wheel thoughtfully as he continued to drive before turning into a nearby lay-by and turning off the engine. The two men sat in silence for a moment, Clint resting his forehead against the steering wheel as Scott leant his own on the window.

“What’s going on?” Clint asked abruptly. Scott glanced in his direction, meeting his eyes and diverting his gaze instantly. He shook his head softly, fixing his eyes instead on the horizon and the achingly slow sunrise. Clint exhaled loudly and opened the car door, stretching his legs as he stood on the tarmac.

“Breakfast,” he announced, as if his previous question had never existed. Scott nodded again, unfastening his seatbelt distractedly as Clint retrieved his bag and sat on the dewy grass bank that lined the road.

They split a bag of dried fruit between them, sharing a single bottle of water thirstily and sitting in silence. Scott’s knee bounced agitatedly as he chewed each raisin, his breathing growing slightly shallow.

“Cassie,” he murmured eventually, fixing Clint with a desperate stare, as if he was hoping a single word would be enough. 

“We’ll be back in no time,” Clint recited a mantra he repeated to himself every time he left his own home. The short sentence reminded him unhappily of his three children, and he began to wonder what they would have done when they found him gone. Cooper would have found the open window; he’d probably have worked it out for himself straight away. And Lila didn’t need her hand holding nearly as much as she used to anymore. She’d be sure to remind him that he didn’t say goodbye when he returned, but the two of them would be practicing their archery in the barn in no time. Of course, Nathaniel was too young to really understand Clint’s comings and goings. He’d happily crawl haphazardly across the room to hug Clint’s knees when he returned from a mission, but he wouldn’t really notice his absence. At least, Clint hoped he wouldn’t.

“They wouldn’t let me see her,” Scott burst out suddenly, the hazel of his irises darkening with a fierce protection, “Only once or twice, never for more than an hour. If this hadn’t have happened… I was going to tell them to stop letting her come. It was hurting her more than it helped me.”

“But the stories-” Clint trailed off almost sheepishly, “Were you trying to make me feel better?”

“I didn’t want you to worry which is dumb, because why would you care? But I just thought, maybe if you thought I was in a damp, dirty flat with two rooms and I wasn’t allowed to see Cassie, maybe you’d leave your house. Try and break me out or something like that. I don’t know why-” Scott’s ramblings were directed at his hands, tightly clenched together in a knot of anxiously moving fingers. 

“I would care,” Clint interrupted indignantly although his expression remained neutral, “I do care. We made a deal with Ross, and I seem to remember your one involving your daughter. If I’d known, I would have been there the next day.”

“Exactly!” Scott shifted on the grass so he faced Clint entirely, raising his arms and gesturing at him, “I didn’t want more than one family getting kept apart over these accords. I thought, if I knew your family was alright, and if I knew Maggie would take care of Cassie without me, that I could live in that place, satisfied.”

“I don’t understand why they embedded your tracker though, or why they insisted on guarding you so closely,” Clint mused under his breath, “Is it just because you’re good at breaking into places?” Scott smiled very slightly and he laughed in a silent exhalation of breath.

“Is the great Hawkeye jealous because he wasn’t considered as much of a threat as the man who talks to ants?” he asked with a hint of normality returning to his tone. Clint rolled his eyes and lightly punched Scott’s uninjured arm. They shared a smile for a moment before it slipped from Scott’s face ever so slightly and he sighed again.

“What are we doing?” he asked suddenly, with a hollow laugh, “We get to New York and then what? Iron Man’s MIA, who knows where anyone else is. We’re not going to stand in the way of an alien invasion for long.”

“Speak for yourself,” Clint replied with a small smirk as Scott rolled his eyes, “Anyway, we’ll do what we’ve always done; help wherever we can. And who knows, maybe there will be someone there to help us.”

—NEW YORK—

Bruce Banner stood amongst ruins. He was not used to standing in destruction of that magnitude whilst still remembering how it happened. The sight was familiar, of course, but he was all too accustomed to seeing it with bleary eyes, memory hazy and mind still overcome with the other guy. This was different. Every surface layered with light brick dust provoked a sound; foundations splintering, car horns blaring, feet running on pavement.

He toyed with the small flip phone in his pocket, feeling for it continually in fear that it may have slipped out of the growing hole in the threadbare jacket he still wore. There hadn’t been much time for sourcing suitable clothes, given the circumstances, and the thought of Tony and that kid disappearing with the giant spaceship was enough to keep any desire to have more comfortable attire at bay.

Bruce glanced up to the sky in the fading light, still rolling the phone over in the palm of his hand. There had been no word from Steve and, unsure of what that meant, Bruce had only been left to worry. Because he had lost Thor, and he had lost Tony. Steve and Natasha weren’t expendable.

It had already been another day since they last spoke. Heeding Steve’s warnings, Bruce had chosen to avoid the Avengers facility, just until a familiar face was there to stop him from saying something out of place. Instead, to quell his curiosity, he had asked Wong the previous evening in the sanctum.

“What are the Accords?” 

Wong looked up from a plate of slightly over cooked pasta that he had been pushing through watery tomato sauce for some time. Bruce’s lay untouched at his side as he leant forward, watching Wong’s expression change from incredulous to thoughtful.

“I forget,” Wong explained softly, “That you have been in Space for so long.” Bruce nodded understandingly, reaching over to switch a desk lamp on to ward off the late evening darkness.

“They were created to control the enhanced abilities of those who protect the planet,” the man began slowly, “One of the more divisive clauses attempted to remove the freedom of the Avengers to choose their battles. It would instead be chosen by the leaders of the countries who signed the Accords.”

“And Steve didn’t like that?” Bruce clarified uncertainly, having gauged a certain hostility in Cap’s tone. Wong shrugged a little and bit into the edge of a piece of pasta, wrinkling his nose slightly.

“I cannot speak for your friend,” he replied diplomatically, “Although I am aware of the disagreements it caused. Stephen, for example, is not too fond of being told what to do. He always seemed happy to be working with us, rather than the Avengers.” Bruce hummed under his breath in response and went back to thinking, his mind remaining eerily quiet, almost making it harder to concentrate.

“Have you heard from him?” he queried, changing the subject. Wong shook his head and went back to his pasta with an air of solemnity.

“Stephen can look after himself,” Wong replied with a troubled frown, “But I fear, out of him and the time stone, only one of them can return.”

Bruce realised he had been perched on a crumbling stone bench on the roadside for some time, as the final rays of sunlight disappeared between a more intact building in front of him. The warmth leached from his face slowly and he inhaled the cooling night air in frustration. He was no closer to finding a lead on Tony, who knew where Clint would end up, and the band was far from back together.

He heard a sound that had become foreign to the empty streets of New York over the last few days; voices. One, slightly indignant, rising and falling between grateful and reluctant. The other, more muted, a hint of care concealed in frustration. Bruce stood up abruptly from the makeshift seat, making to cross the intersection in order to avoid the two men. The volume of the voices increased, one of them causing Bruce’s retreating figure to turn sharply.

“If we had the suit, I could shrink and sit in your pocket,” the unfamiliar voice spoke, as if they were reciting someone they had said several times.

“Well, like I’ve said a hundred times, we don’t have the suit,” a recognisably bored tone replied, “And there’s no way you’re sitting in my pocket.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t really work, given the weight and all,” the other voice continued to talk, eliciting only a sigh and muttered expletive from their companion.

And then, from around the corner, Clint Barton himself appeared, supporting another man with one arm behind their back and the other holding an unsteady arm over his shoulder. The stranger cradled one arm against his chest, partially hidden by a hurriedly put together sling and he seemed to favour one ankle.

“When we see Ross,” the injured man began with gritted teeth. Clint seemed to hide a smile, as if he had also heard this train of thought a few times.

“I’ll kick his ass,” he finished easily, “On your behalf.” The other man seemed satisfied and refocused his eyes on the road ahead, meeting Bruce’s gaze from across the road. Clint was yet to look away from his companion, his stare carefully watching their slow progress, patient and calculating.

“Hey, so what’s the protocol with random dudes in the street?” the unfamiliar man’s voice dropped lightly, only carried across to Bruce by the stiff breeze that was causing a swinging sign to hit against a brick wall continually behind him. Clint’s eyes snapped ahead of the two of them, his less supportive hand already reaching over his shoulder for the more rudimentary bow strapped to his back. One side of his mouth quirked up at the sight of Bruce and he chuckled to himself for a moment.

“We go and ask them how the fuck they got here,” he answered the other man’s question, having to half drag him across the road as he opened and closed his mouth to reply several times.

“That doesn’t seem logica-”

“Bruce!” Clint smiled broadly, a rare sight on his usually impassive face and an expression that Bruce easily reciprocated.

“Aah, so you know each other,” the stranger trailed off to himself before glancing between Clint and Bruce and nodding his head at the former indicatively. Clint frowned at him uncomprehendingly, only causing him to exhale loudly and stick a hand out towards Bruce, balancing himself on one foot without his human crutch.

“Scott Lang,” he introduced with a good natured smile before faltering for a second, “Wait a minute. You’re Bruce Banner. He’s Bruce Banner?” He turned to Clint without pausing for breath, only causing the other man to smirk in a similar fashion to before and nod his head.

“Nice to meet you,” Bruce said, clearing his throat, “And you Clint, where have you been?” Clint let out a trademark Barton laugh, short and sharp before shaking his head.

“I really think, under the circumstances, I should be asking you that question, Doc,” he replied with a smirk, “But if you tell me your story, I’ll tell you mine.”

“Space, mostly,” Bruce replied, watching the expression drop from Clint’s face.

“And there I was, thinking house arrest was at least worth a few cool points,” he complained under his breath before replacing his arm around Scott’s shoulder good naturedly. “We have just broken out of said house arrest though, which must count for something, right?”

Bruce glanced at both of them up and down, satisfied with Clint, but almost itching to reach out and check Scott’s arm, having missed several months worth of medical examinations and lab work.

“That looks nasty,” he brushed over Clint’s crestfallen expression as he continued to mutter ‘space?’ under his breath repeatedly. Scott glanced up from his perusal of the floor as if surprised to be included in the conversation.

“Oh, this?” he asked, pointing to his arm, “It’s not a problem, Dr. Banner, really.”

“Bruce,” Clint corrected almost automatically, causing another smile to blossom on Bruce’s face. He glanced around for a moment to get his bearings, prone to getting lost in the maze of derelict streets, and gestured towards the familiar rooftop and circular window frame of the sanctuary.

“I know a place you could stay for a while,” he offered hopefully, watching Clint’s eyes meet Scott’s briefly.

“That would be good, thank you Doc,” Clint replied, and only then did Bruce notice the man blinking away sleep determinedly as Scott seemed to simultaneously hold him up and lean against him.

“You drove all this way since the news reports?” Bruce asked, doing the calculations in his head quickly, “You must be exhausted.”

“Nothing a hot meal and a proper bed won’t fix,” Clint replied with another lopsided smile that deteriorated into a yawn, “I’ve always been bad at sleeping in vans.”

Back at the sanctum, once Wong had given both visitors the once over with a critical eye, the three men sat around a small, cramped table. The wooden surface was littered with yellowed paper folded beneath dusty, ancient books. Scott and Clint sat opposite Bruce who placed the small first aid kit from Clint’s backpack in a free space on the desk. 

“Sprained,” Clint reported with another yawn, “Pretty badly after the moron jumped out of a window.” Scott closed his eyes tiredly and protested under his breath.

“It was a drainpipe,” he corrected quietly, “I fell off a drainpipe.” He smiled sheepishly at Bruce who hid a laugh at Clint’s expression.

“You pick some odd friends,” he told his fellow avenger fondly, “I’m not sure if it is a privilege or a curse to be considered one of them.” 

“Well, this one is fantastically unusual,” Clint said, patting Scott’s shoulder, “They call him Ant-Man…”

“I didn’t choose the name,” Scott muttered under his breath again.

“Because he can talk to the ants,” Clint continued regardless, leaning forwards conspiratorially, “And he shrinks, Bruce.” Dr. Banner looked up from his careful bandage work with interest, glancing over Scott as if he expected to find a noticeable indication of such an ability.

“Pym particles,” Scott explained, his tone slightly questioning until Bruce nodded comprehendingly.

“All S.H.I.E.L.D ever had on them was a failed research project,” he commented with interest, “I had ruled them out too, to be honest.” Clint grinned with the satisfaction of ‘outsmarting’ the doctor, as if he had found the particles himself.

“Hank preferred to keep his research under wraps,” Scott continued, “And then the Accords happened.”

“And Scott came to work with us,” Clint picked up the story, “All it took was the Captain America name drop.” Scott’s cheeks blushed slightly but he laughed self-deprecatingly nonetheless.

“So Steve and Tony really haven’t spoken?” Bruce asked casually, already expecting to hear only one answer.

“Cap turned up to get us lot out of prison,” Clint replied, pointing between him and Scott, “A couple of cuts on his face, and we never heard Tony’s name again. I’d barely heard a thing until his face appeared on the news.”

Bruce, once the topic of the previous days came up, couldn’t keep the story under wraps for long. He described the destruction in the streets, the disappearance of the Hulk, Tony and an unfamiliar boy disappearing along with another man who had an important stone around his neck.

“Infinity stones,” Clint tested out the new phrase thoughtfully, “Any idea what they do?” He seemed happier to brush over his close contact with one of them in the original New York battle, a wish Bruce was more than happy to grant.

“Together, they’ll allow Thanos to fulfil his dream; to wipe out half of all living things in the universe,” Bruce replied morbidly. Whilst Clint sat back on his chair with a thoughtful ‘wow,’ Scott’s eyes had slipped closed, his head leaning onto his chin.

“You both need to rest,” Bruce nodded his head towards the sleeping man and then looked at Clint pointedly, “Have you even slept in the last three days?”

“I’ve had bigger things on my mind,” Clint lowered his voice, “They embedded a tracker in his skin, Bruce. I just got the usual ankle tracker but, it made me uneasy, okay? Who knows if they have other ways of keeping tabs on him, or me.” That explained the limp, Bruce realised with a shiver, only imagining the grim determination of Clint’s face as he cut out the device.

“All for refusing to sign the accords?” he asked incredulously. Clint shrugged his shoulders slightly, puffing out a breath of exasperation.

“We made deals so we wouldn’t have to go on the run like Steve,” he explained, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Scott has a kid, Cassie. She’s young too; younger than a couple of mine. I went back to the farm and Scott was meant to go back to her.” He paused for a moment, glancing at the sleeping man, an unfamiliar look of empathy surprising Bruce.

“But?”

“He barely got to see her. The government kept them apart most of the time, and now we’re both back on the run,” he broke off with a resolute sigh, “I’d retired, Bruce. Me and Laura, we were going to do married life properly, for once. Some things never change, I suppose.”

“You’re tired, Clint,” Bruce told him gingerly, unaccustomed to the other man’s honesty, “It’ll all seem a bit easier in the morning.”

After Clint woke Scott and helped him up the stairs, Bruce stood at the base of the staircase, frowning thoughtfully, the uneasy knot in his stomach only seeming to have tightened at the sight of a familiar face.

Meanwhile, Clint settled himself on the narrow bed Wong had shown him to, listening to the steady breathing across from him.

“You’ll get back to Laura,” Scott’s voice permeated the darkness suddenly, sincerity clouded slightly with fatigue. Clint smiled gently towards the ceiling and glanced over to where he imagined Scott would be lying.

“And you’ll get back to Cassie, I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another bit of Clint and Scott being friends :)
> 
> Thank you so much for all of your comments so far! It really motivates me to write when I see people enjoying the previous chapters and I’ll definitely take what you say into account. I’m glad the Scott/Clint storyline seems popular, as it’s definitely meant to be the focus of this fic.
> 
> My aim is to try and upliad at least once a week. So if I upload a little earlier than planned, my next upload will be within an week of that where possible :)


	5. 5 in 6 People Dislike Ceiling Vents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor meets the morons
> 
> The morons meet Thor
> 
> Bruce makes and breaks an alliance in record time

_—SPACE—_

Thor’s taste of a blissful oblivion was all too short. His world came into focus audibly at first, surrounded by the sounds of his people begging for help, the most advanced race in the universe reduced to vulnerable, incompetent victims of a war unlike no other.

_This is not a war craft._

He kept his eye closed despite the light that shone through his eyelid, dimming occasionally as a patch of darkness, presumably a shadow, crossed his vision. The god took his time, concentrating on his hands, feeling a hard, metal surface beneath them. And the rest of his body, not tied down, lain on this cold bed, aching down to the bones with something beyond a physical pain.

_Our crew is made of Asgardian families. We have very few soldiers here._

Spots of light still danced in front of the dark curtain, flickers of the purple flame that had taken his ship and with it, his family. Thor was reminded of Earth, the last place left that could be considered a home away from home. Bruce had got back there, he reminded himself, for what little comfort it gave him. Of course, that reminded him of Heimdall and then, in an unintentional loop, that only brought his thoughts around to Loki. The brother he’d never truly had, the pain in his ass he wouldn’t have done without.

_Wake._

A new voice, standing out over the fragments of memory. It was warm, insistent and reaching; like a hand reaching out to pull him from the trap of his thoughts. He placed his own hand in the one that reached for him and shook himself into consciousness.

“Who the hell are you?” Thor sat up immediately, pivoting his head to take in the crew of misfits that surrounded him, swiftly growing frustrated of the blindspot his eyepatch left him with. The first, withdrawing her hand immediately as it hovered above his head, her eyes widening at Thor’s erratic movements. She had a pair of antennae protruding from dark hair that fell to her shoulders. Her face was youthful but troubled, as if she could somehow feel Thor’s inner conflicts. One man stood to one side, with a build to rival the god himself. His blue skin was adorned with intricate patterns, painted across his skin like a mosaic. Thor pushed himself up from the table, noticing what appeared to be a rabbit of some sort, a small, talking plant and a green skinned, fierce looking woman who leant against a column in the ship he found himself on. She swung a sharp blade between two fingers, throwing it up slightly occasionally, catching it again in one hand.

The final member of the odd crew visibly adjusted his posture as Thor’s eye fell on him. He was dressed in familiar clothing, not unlike that of the Avengers. He was definitely human, Thor deduced swiftly, before noting several other pieces of technology, originating from Earth, although the god had only ever read about them in books.

“Who the hell are _you_?” the Earth man replied, before clearing his throat and attempting to push his shoulders further back. Thor cast another glance around the cluttered room, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly at the sight of an old cassette player – Tony had once been tinkering with one when he visited Earth, filling the lab with the crackling, poor quality music of old tapes.

“I am Thor Odinson, prince of-” Thor paused for a moment, “Asgard.” The stony faced woman shared a glance with this man and then shrugged her shoulders.

“So it was your distress call?” the man spoke again. Thor nodded swiftly, still looking around with a slightly bemused expression as he noticed further details in their rudimentary ship.

“What are your intentions?” the woman asked suddenly, pocketing the long blade in a holster and glancing up at Thor.

“I am searching for Thanos.” Thor paced the narrow space between the onlooking crowd and the metal table. “I intend to kill him.” This provoked a slight reaction; the two shared a glance, a silent moment of communication and finally a nod.

“Thanos is searching for the infinity stones, isn’t he?” the human asked. Thor nodded in reply, looking off across the microcosm of space through the window.

“He already has the power stone and the space stone. But tell me, how do you know of him already?”

“Thanos is my father, or step-father.” The stormy faced woman did not look too proud of the fact, although this did not stop Thor from rounding on her instinctively.

“Your father killed my brother,” he began, his initial delivery harsh and accusatory, falling away until he was merely stating a painful truth, “Family can be difficult.” She nodded her head once and then turned away again.

“Gamora isn’t really his daughter,” the man spoke up again, “It was kind of an unavoidable thing; you know what adoption can be like.” Again, Loki sprung to mind and Thor buried the memory under several tonnes of extra baggage that rose readily to fill his brother’s place.

“And anyway, my dad killed my mom, so I had to deal with him if you know what I mean,” the Earth man continued to talk. “And I’ve still got two eyes, so there’s that.”

“Deal with him?” the larger, blue man echoed slowly, “I do not understand this statement. Therefore, I do not know what you mean.” The authoritative man rolled his eyes to the ceiling and raised his finger as if he was going to draw it across his throat and then thought better of it.

“Killed him,” he emphasised with a groan, “It means I killed him.” The other made a noise of understanding and then returned to leaning against a wall, his forehead furrowed in concentration.

“It’s a good job you didn’t try the hand signal on him again,” the rodent spoke up from the floor, “I tried to do finger guns at him the other day; he almost blew my head off with an actual gun five minutes later.”

“I misinterpreted the foreign gesture,” the blue man replied, raising his hands in his defence, “Sometimes, I think you must be speaking another language.” The animal-like creature pointed at him and looked up at Thor with an agitated sigh.

“Drax isn’t familiar with anything metaphorical. The people you have to put up with in this line of work, eh? A bunch of morons.”

“In fact, rabbit, my dealings with fellow teammates have gone far better than these few interactions,” the god replied honestly, failing to notice the barely contained huff of exasperation from the animal.

“So, where is your team?” the human asked again, narrowing his eyes and glancing out of a nearby window, “They’re not still floating about, getting ready to fall on top of our windscreen again, are they?”

“No, they are the Avengers,” Thor replied, gaining a faraway look in his eyes before snapping back to the present to explain, “Earth’s mightiest heroes.”

“Like Kevin Bacon?” The quiet voice was the same as the one that had woken Thor. He turned around to face the insectoid woman, watching her antennae move instinctively above her hair.

“I’m not sure,” he replied, running through a list of names in his head, a thought occurring to him, “They may have branched out since I last saw them; I haven’t been to Earth for a long time.” The human glanced up from the floor at that statement, an almost sympathetic expression crossing his face as he nodded knowingly.

Thor grew restless quickly, remembering a small pod he had noticed, stationed at one end of the spacecraft. He strode over without thinking and scrutinised the number pad with a frown, pointing at it and glancing over his shoulder.

“It is a memorable code?” he asked calmly, pointing at the tree, “What is the date of your birthday.”

“I am Groot.” Thor’s eyebrows raised in surprise; he’d never expected the elective he’d taken on Asgard to understand such a language to come in handy, but he turned back to the pad and input the four numbers.

“I’m sorry, what are you doing?” The earth man stepped forwards but the rabbit stopped him, patting his leg with a furry paw. He stepped forwards himself and looked up questioningly.

“Thanos will not be stopping for formalities,” Thor replied incredulously, “I am taking your pod and plan to intercept him as soon as possible.”

“Back up, buddy,” the human spoke again, “You’re not taking my pod anywhere.” Thor stared at him open mouthed for a second and then stepped away from the pod hesitantly.

“Thanos is travelling to the next stone as we speak. I need to get to Nivadellir to collect something important,” Thor attempted to sound patient. The rodent glanced between Thor and the human with a glint of interest in his eyes.

“Nivadellir?”

“That’s a made up word,” the human interrupted, crossing his arms.

“No it isn’t, Quill,” the rodent replied with a toothy grin, “I wasn’t sure if it existed. The most powerful, deadly weapons are forged there, in the heat of a star. What I’d do to get something from there for my collection…”

“You would implode, merely trying to wield such a tool,” Thor interjected swiftly, “Few can channel the energy of those weapons.”

“I knew there was a reason you were smiling so much, Rocket,” the man, Quill, spoke with a hint of sarcasm in his tone. Rocket merely smiled wider in reply, hopping from foot to foot in front of Quill.

“Groot and I would be happy to join you on this mission,” he offered calmly, ignoring the agitated sigh of Gamora who still attempted to look uninterested at the back of the room.

“Thanos needs to be stopped,” Quill argued in return, looking to Thor for support, “Where is he going?”

“Nowhere.” Quill rolled his eyes again and laughed to himself at the god’s reply.

“Helpful.”

“No, human,” Thor repeated, “He’s going to Knowhere, it’s a place.” Quill seemed to catch in before setting his mouth in a straight line.

“We’ve been there before,” he said coolly. Thor nodded approvingly and returned to stand in front of the pod.

“Then you should be able to hold Thanos off for some time,” Thor replied easily, “He cannot get his hands on the reality stone. If he does, retrieving the time stone and mind stone from Earth will be a far easier task. And then, he only has-”

“The soul stone,” Gamora finished quietly, “And then he can destroy half of the universe with a snap of his fingers.”

“Exactly,” Thor said insistently, “We do not have time to stick together and it is vital that I get to Nivadellir. Rabbit, will you accompany me there?” Rocket, despite a slight look of offence, quickly ignored Quill’s disapproving expression and nodded his head, unlocking the pod eagerly.

“We’re not meant to split up,” Quill implored quietly, as if he was hesitant to sound needy. Rocket turned around halfway through the code and raised his hands with a sigh.

“What else are we supposed to do, Quill?”

“He’s right, Peter,” Gamora spoke up again, back to spinning the blade between her fingers, “Thanos must be stopped, above all else.”

Thor ducked his head to step into the cramped pod, shifting himself over to make space for the teenage tree that joined the two of them reluctantly, although not without grumbling ‘I am Groot’ under his breath several times.

“Good luck, morons!” Thor called as the door sealed shut, failing to hear Peter’s frustrated retort.

“We’re called the Guardians of the Galaxy actually.”

_—NEW YORK—_

The New Avengers facility was a lifeless shell, abandoned by half of the team that used to call it home, leaving very few rooms inhabited, and the corridors empty. Rhodes strode down one particular hallway at Bruce Banner’s side, enjoying the company and conversation for once.

“I’ll let you know if I hear anything,” he promised the slightly bedraggled man who walked at double speed to keep up with his far more confident paces, now accustomed to the prosthetic legs that supported him.

“Thank you,” Bruce was rather formal, a hesitant, friendly smile briefly passing his face, “I’ll pass on any information I find as well.” The two shook hands at the doorway, parting ways with what appeared to be an unspoken alliance between them.

Bruce had barely cleared the security gates of the compound when he reached into his pocket and retrieved the small phone and punched in the familiar number.

“It seems clear, Clint,” he reported cautiously, “Rhodes is there like you thought he would be. But other than that, I couldn’t see anyone else except for a fairly standard detail of guards. You should still be able to get in through the back as we planned; Wong should have got that interference program running by now.” The line was slightly broken up with static and the sounds of pacing footsteps, but the response eventually reached Bruce.

“We’re going in now,” Clint replied, surveying the landscape below him and Scott, just catching sight of Bruce’s retreating figure. Beneath them, in the crook of the valley, stood the building complex. The large A insignia emblazoned on the roof felt like a punch in the gut to Clint, still finding himself yearning for the old team to be back together; wanting just one last hectic, unorthodox mission. Hawkeye was not made for retirement.

“All clear?” Scott asked from his side, his eyes brighter than they had been the night before and his gait clearing, leaving his limp less pronounced. In place of a sling, he had wrapped his wrist tightly with bandages, holding it protectively against his chest from time to time but mostly allowing it to swing freely. He fiddled with the strap of a threadbare backpack they had scrounged from beneath the rubble on the streets of New York, slung over one shoulder and containing all the equipment they could make up from the detritus around the sanctum.

“Straight in, straight out,” Clint reminded him absentmindedly, his eyes still scanning the compound carefully. Scott’s knee bounced up and down energetically, nodding in agreement but doing nothing to quell his enthusiasm. “You’ve cheered up.”

“A bit of thieving makes for a good distraction,” the other man smiled back, “And I’m getting my suit back.”

“If everything goes to plan,” Clint commented under his breath, straightening his back and gesturing down the hill with his head. The two men set off into the valley, paranoia creeping up their backs, sending their heads glancing around every so often as they made steady progress towards the tall wire fences.

“And you’re sure we won’t trip the security sensors?” Scott whispered softly as they crept over the uneven terrain, “Last time I was here, they detected me when I was ant-sized.” Clint shrugged, sending a slightly boyish grin over his shoulder. He couldn’t deny the rush of adrenaline he got from the mission anxiety that caused through his veins. And there was something liberating about a simple burglary that took him back to the days before S.H.I.E.L.D, when he would steal for other people in a good day to earn money, resorting to clean, undetectable assassinations when he was short of money. It was a messed up life, even he could admit that, but there weren’t many recruits in a secret government organisation who hadn’t been pulled out of the sewers of a real life on the street, got a haircut and a change of clothes to make themselves look presentable, and an attitude to make them behave like a proper agent.

And there were similarities between him and Scott. Earning money to make ends meet, resorting to less legal channels of income, a need to provide for family. Clint had been young when the Barton’s went from two to three, still leaving the small farmhouse Fury had set up for him in the dead of night, the only sounds around him dying away to leave his footprints stealthily crossing piles of drying autumnal leaves.

They approached the fence, setting to work with an old pair of pliers that Wong had found in a back drawer somewhere. He’d waved his hands vacantly in the air and mentioned the need for redecoration around the sanctum, explaining that he had wanted to do som DIY around the old building when he got the chance. Clint, and Scott, judging from the look they shared, were secretly glad the enigmatic man had never set to work on the delicate, ageing electrical system of the sanctum with such inaccurate tools. Scott especially, having admired the original light fixtures around the shadowy rooms, seemed all too happy to take the tools off of Wong’s hands.

The pliers made light work of the chain fence and Clint slipped through the narrow hole they had cut, holding the gap open for Scott and pointing to the bins that lined the back wall. He crouched and ran to the far one, a large plastic container pushed into the corner of the main building. The two men pushed it to one side and slipped between it and the adjacent bin, reaching a small air vent cover at the base of the wall.

“They’ll be regretting letting me use these things to get around,” Clint muttered with a smirk, “I think Stark was so bemused that he had no choice but to let me use the air vents when I wanted to.”

“And one of these definitely gets us to the door of the vault?” Scott asked again, repeating the same question he’d had several times during the plan. Clint hid a teasing smile with his turned back and set to work on the screws that held the metal covering in place.

“You really don’t want to crawl through an air vent for nothing, do you?” he attempted to keep the taunting tone from his voice but failed quite spectacularly, allowing a snort to escape him, earning a light punch on the shoulder.

“Seeing as I don’t prefer to live in vents, no, I don’t want to squeeze myself into a confined space purely for the hell of it,” Scott retorted under his breath, “In fact, I would have preferred to have crept in the front door in the middle of the night, but we went with your plan anyway.” Clint suppressed his laughter again, kicking the swinging grate to one side and waving his hand in front of the dark opening.

“Ladies first,” he smirked, batting away another slap to the arm. Scott inhaled the fresh outdoor air before pushing himself head first into the narrow gap with little hesitation and Clint had to admit he was impressed; only Natasha hadn’t found his preferred method of travel completely alienating, even opting to join him in the confined spaces in the ceiling from time to time, enjoying the quiet, and the privacy. And, as much as she hated to admit it, Clint knew she secretly liked the opportunity to pick up on the gossip around the facility, something that he had been unashamedly interested in.

“How did you used to breathe in here?” Scott’s whispered voice reverberated back down the dark tunnel.

“I ignored the claustrophobia and breathed like a normal person,” Clint replied, listening to the slightly shallower breaths, interspersed with a silent laugh.

“Helpful.” Scott continued to move along the vent that followed the wall around the compound, standing up on Clint’s instruction, in a diversion that led up to the ceiling vents. “So I just pull myself up?”

“No, you just stand there, waiting all day for someone to levitate you up there,” Clint replied, seeing the feet in front of him disappear, followed by the scrabbling of shoes against a metal wall. He was enjoying the new challenge of trying to get a retort out of Scott, a far more interesting opponent than Steve, who would never say something rude in return, or Natasha, who stayed annoyingly silent regardless of what he said. That, or he ended up with a very big bruise.

Scott and Clint set off again once both of them were up in the ceiling, the sounds of the inner workings of the compound far louder in the roof, where the water audibly ran through pipes and the building seemed to creak and groan in complaint. It was the sound of conversing voices that caused Scott to pause mid-crawl and cock his head to one side.

“Rhodes,” he whispered under his breath, “And Ross?” Clint’s stomach sank to his feet for a moment as the two familiar voices finally reached his ears and he nodded in agreement, unseen to Scott.

“There’s no way Bruce missed that asshole,” he replied thoughtfully, “How far ahead?” Scott tilted his head again, straining his ears to listen.

“It’s hard to tell from the echoes,” he reported eventually, “Somewhere to the right of us, and up ahead.”

“We’re going left anyway,” Clint replied, slightly relieved, “Just stick to the plan for now. Once we’ve got the suit and the bow we can always fight our way out.” Scott turned his head back as far as he could in the narrow space, shooting a disapproving look back at Clint.

“I’d rather avoid that,” he admitted under his breath, “We don’t need to be fighting between ourselves right now.” Clint had to agree, although he wouldn’t have minded sending an arrow flying into Ross’s leg, just enough to cause him a little bit of pain. After all, Clint hated the authority figures who had never stepped within ninety feet of a war-zone, and yet behaved as if they had years of military service on the front line somewhere, omitting their bland work history of bland desk jobs.

“It’s a back-up option then,” he conceded before patting Scott’s back, “Let’s keep moving. The sooner we get back, the sooner I can kick Bruce’s butt for failing to notice that the Secretary General who put us in prison was here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A mid-schedule update for you all!
> 
> The comments on this have been so motivating for me to write more recently! And all the whilst I’m waiting for Scott and Clint to be in more fics, I'll keep writing my own to satisfy all of us :)


	6. 9 in 10 Supernatural Occurences have Logical Explanations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott is back to his old ways
> 
> Natasha is still a human capable of smiling
> 
> Peter keeps spoiling films

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS HAS BEEN EDITED SINCE PUBLISHING
> 
> I was very tired when I wrote this the night before and I did something pretty illogical as someone helpfully pointed out in the comments. If you’ve already read the chapter, you only need to reread the end of Clint and Scott’s part to know what has changed. Otherwise, I’ll explain it all in the next chapter's notes (I just don’t want to spoil it here for anyone who hasn’t read it yet)

_—EARTH—_

“There it is!” Scott crawled to the other side of a grate beneath his knees and spun awkwardly so he could face Clint in the narrow air vent. “The suit and your bow!” Clint glanced through the narrow slits of the vent and nodded approvingly although the distance from the ceiling to the floor concerned him.

“About not fighting our way out,” he started gingerly, “I don’t think I’m getting back up here and I think you’ll only manage it on the back of an ant.” Scott leant over the grate again and scrutinised the distance, trying to measure it with his hands. Clint sat back on his heels and waited for the illuminating conclusion he was sure the man would reach with amusement plain on his face.

“Yes.”

“Yes?” Clint asked with a quirked smile. Scott shrugged.

“You seem to be correct,” he elaborated with an oblivious smile, “And I don’t have the ants to help out right now.” Clint blinked slowly, still finding that he would never get used to the random ant totals that seemed commonplace around Scott.

“So, fighting our way out?”

“How about peacefully trying to creep out?” Scott suggested before back-pedalling at Clint’s almost disappointed expression, “And we’ll fight them if they get in the way.” Clint brightened, flexing his fingers behind his back and feeling that same wave of anticipation creep up on him. He’d missed the unpredictability of a field operation, the improvisation and the promise of a harmless little fight. It wasn’t just that he really wanted to accidentally shoot Ross through the back (honest) but the mere idea of putting his archery skills back to test made his fingers itch impatiently.

Scott was studiously unscrewing the tightly fastened air vent, swivelling the small screwdriver they’d found at the bottom of Clint’s emergency backpack with his good hand and humming under his breath. It was still hard to believe that he’d been in prison, despite the fact he’d pretty much just been a modern day Robin Hood, and Clint would always be entertained by Sam’s reluctant rendition of the falcon vs. ant fight at the very facility they found themselves in now. It always started with a ridiculous recount of the short conversation they’d shared on the roof; Sam enjoyed that part if only to humiliate Scott for introducing himself so politely and then expecting to be given a piece of technology for free. Of course, it only went downhill for Wilson from there, as Clint liked to remind the embarrassed man gleefully, and he was always much more reluctant to continue the tale from there.

Really, fumbled conversations and oddly impressive acts seemed to follow Scott around like a plague. He ‘thinked’ Steve for ‘thanking’ of him, leaving the Captain with a delightfully easy to imitate expression of incredulity but then grew to the size of a giant about thirty minutes later and allowed Bucky and Steve to escape. And yes, he asked for orange slices afterwards, but the act itself had been fairly impressive.

“Any ‘hi I’m Scott’ lines planned for this situation?” Clint asked lazily to pass the time. Scott huffed out a silent laugh through his nose and shook his head.

“I’ll stick to shrinking,” he replied at a whisper, “Feel free to fill in for me.” Clint shook his head with a grin, preferring the silent assassin approach to most things, including non-lethal fights, something Tony had always found entertaining. Thor found it confusing, not the only thing he struggled to grasp, but that always made the interim missions Clint had been on with the other avengers more entertaining. The god was an especially interesting partner in crime, terrible at making a quiet entrance and far worse at subtly suggesting anything in a negotiation. And whilst this had always given Steve a minor heart attack when he was partnered up with him, Clint always enjoyed the mid-mission comedy routine, the disoriented god often defeated by the simplest of challenges.

The vent finally swung down from one screw and Scott slid his legs around himself so they were hanging through the gap. He glanced up from his view of the floor with a small grin.

“This is going to get interesting,” he muttered under his breath, still smiling. Clint calculated a worst case scenario timeframe for them to get themselves ready for a fight and bit his bottom lip thoughtfully.

“Am I going to need to cover you whilst you get the suit on?” he asked as Scott was about to jump. The other man shook his head and landed on the tiled floor almost silently a moment later. Clint held his hands up in disbelief and hopped down after him, retrieving his bow and arrows swiftly.

“And here I was thinking I'm the spontaneous one,” he grumbled over his shoulder, locking an arrow in and aiming it straight through the bars of the caged room the weapons were being held in.

“I once put my suit on in ten seconds,” Scott replied, straightening his sleeves and fastening the helmet in place. His eyes were still wide with childish excitement through the red glass of the mask and he was evidently smiling behind the protective headgear. “Now what?”

“This is why we should have planned this in the ceiling vent,” Clint answered in mock exasperation, “Because now we are stuck in a cage with no way out.” Scott held his gloved hand up to stop the continuing rant that was about to unfold in front of him.

“No door is ever locked, Barton,” he replied slickly, heading to the back wall and positioning himself in front of the door. “Watch and learn.” Clint relaxed the tension on his bow string and gestured with a sweep of his arm.

“The floor is yours,” he announced grandly, memories of the circus illuminating a smile on his face. He watched as Scott took a running (limping) start towards the door and leapt, almost disappearing from view as he shrunk in midair and reappearing on the other side of the bars.

“Couldn’t you have walked through the massive gaps in the bars?” Clint asked with an amused smirk. Scott opened his mouth to reply, head tilted to one side, and then snapped it shut again.

“Yes,” he eventually said, snapping his fingers and pointing at the bars, “But that was cooler, right?” Clint shrugged although yes, it was definitely, at least slightly, cool and then stepped towards the bars, glancing from floor to ceiling.

“Now we need to get me out,” he prompted Scott who stood, shuffling from foot to foot, in front of him.

“I could pass you the suit through the bars,” he began brightly before Clint interrupted.

“Or you could steal a key and bring it back here,” he suggested, “You know, rather than drawing more attention to us here whilst you try and get out of that thing and pass it to me. I don’t think there’s anyone coming for us right now because they’d be here by now so I should be safe.” Scott seemed a little reluctant but nodded, snapping the helmet back down across his face and resting his fingers on the red buttons stitched into the fabric of his gloves.

“In and out, grab the key from somewhere,” he summarised swiftly, “It sounds easier if you say it fast.” Clint raised an eyebrow and shook his head, gesturing down the corridor and wracking his brains for a moment.

“If the layout hasn’t changed since I was here last, there should be a key kept down that corridor, second left and then the third right.” Scott nodded his head, repeated the instructions back and then disappeared from view. Clint narrowed his eyes and spotted the tiny figure running down the corridor, veering to the left at the second corner.

He spent the meantime trying to work out why the alarms hadn’t at least tripped, regardless of who was or was not present at the base. This wasn’t a particular easy, or possible task from the confines of the small room but Clint found it stimulating enough to distract him from his boredom. Maybe Rhodes had more on his mind, Clint reasoned, what with the disappearance of Tony. Or perhaps he knew they were there and was trying to help somehow to keep Ross away from them. Less likely, he decided immediately, but not totally implausible. The accords had, after all, inadvertently left Rhodes with a mountain of physiotherapy and a life changing injury to deal with. And if that was Clint, he’d be at least a little bitter.

Meanwhile, Scott made easy progress through the long corridors. He slipped through the open door of a room three corridors down on the right and immediately drew up short at the doorframe. Face to face with the back of Ross’s polished black shoes, he backed up with slow, creeping footsteps. To make matters worse, Scott caught a glimpse of a set of keys lying within reach on the desk across the room. They were a chair’s climb and a jump away from Scott, but the chair happened to have a Secretary of State between it and him.

“Cause a distraction,” Scott muttered under his breath, swinging his head from left to right to get some inspiration. Caught up in looking, he didn’t notice the appearance of several more people until the door he was pressed up against opened fully. He dived against the wall to get some cover and then looked up, suppressing a relieved cheer of relief.

“Captain Rogers,” Ross seemed taken aback, enough to distract himself from small running men. And so, Scott stayed small and ran, darting beneath a table halfway to the desk and then to the chair itself. He glanced behind him at the small crowd of people at the door. Wanda, supporting Vision, who Scott only recognised from the airport battle. Then, stood against the back wall, Natasha and Sam, the latter nudging her and nodding his head directly at Scott. He froze for a moment, before noticing the uncharacteristic, wry smile flit across Natasha’s face and gave a sarcastic salute from across the room, hoping they could see him. Sam reached his hand up to scratch the side of his head, forming his fingers into a loose salute in reply and then immediately looked back towards Steve.

“Earth is missing one if its finest fighters right now,” Steve seemed to be arguing with Ross, “We are offering our services to you.” Scott blocked out fragments of the conversation as he pulled himself on to the seat of the chair, shimmying up the metal legs like a fireman’s pole.

“You are a criminal and do not deserve to be pardoned,” Ross was replying, his tone cool and unforgiving. Scott was at the keys, quickly working off the slightly older locking key that seemed the most likely to fit in the cell door. He stayed crouched behind the rest of the key ring, shifting the metal quietly to avoid being detected.

He finally released it and lowered the key to the tabletop gingerly. He glanced up at the crowd in front of him, noting the tension on Cap’s face and Ross’s bristling back. There had to be something he could do. Scott glanced across the desk at the assorted array of stationary and the computer. He didn’t doubt that he could run some sort of computer program, given the time to jump on every key of the keyboard to execute it but doubted he could pull that off without being seen by someone. Instead he went for a classic technique; make something kind of supernatural and creepy happen. In reality, this involved Scott, a fully grown man, running full pelt at the back of a pencil pot repetitively until he finally hit it at the right angle and pens cascaded across the surface.

“I see you’ve brought company,” Ross immediately seemed to catch on. Scott listened from behind the computer, where he had thrown himself the second the pot overbalanced. He wasn’t quite sure if he’d expected a government official to suddenly run off, terrified of supernatural activity, but he had to admit he was hoping to avoid detection for a moment.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Steve replied honestly as Scott watched from behind the screen. Rogers was hiding a smile, biting his lip subtly to keep himself from smiling. It was a rare sight, the usually stoic man remaining thoughtful and serious more often, but it was enough to spread a smile across Scott’s face. This disappeared as Ross paced to the desk, casting his eyes over the spilled pens and then looking across the desk for a small man. Scott wondered if he might try and crush him under his palm before noticing the loaded gun held firmly in his hand and then, as he had in several occasions, cursed Hank for refusing to answer his very serious concern about how impossible it would be to use his increased density to not get shot. The older man had always rolled his eyes as if it was a stupid question and Scott only now decided that maybe that was because it was dumb to ask that, which probably meant he was almost certainly dead. Or Pym was messing with him. Which was also very likely.

“I received notice that Mr. Lang and Mr. Barton escaped their respective houses two days ago,” Ross was explaining over his shoulder as the single soldier he had with him attempted to keep several avengers under control. Steve stood calmly with his shoulders pulled back as he watched the proceedings. Scott decided that he’d definitely been given too much credit regarding the getaway portion of his plan and continued to scheme more urgently in his head. The gun seemed to phase the Captain only slightly; maybe he too understood the whole shrinking act more than Scott himself. Then again, this was a man who had never heard of Harry Potter, so Scott wasn’t entirely sure if he should be comforted or not.

Coming to some sort of makeshift conclusion, he tugged at the wires in the back of the computer, causing the screen to go blank and set off at a swift sprint towards the key at the other end of the desk, hurdling pencils left and right as he went. Ross’s exclamation of confusion quickly turned to one of triumph. Scott knew he had been seen but kept running, consciously zigzagging across the tabletop. He desperately hoped that Hank had been messing with him and that he could somehow avoid being ripped to pieces by a bullet but that still felt like wishful thinking.

It was a thought that left his head swiftly as an earthquake shook the table, sending pencils rolling in every direction. The epicentre had been just behind him, Scott calculated swiftly, also coming to the realisation that the earthquake was a bullet and that the gun would be coming for him again. He ducked his head to avoid the flying shrapnel of wood splinters and danced to the left a little both to make himself a more difficult target and because the disorientation of his ringing ears made him stumble. But he still liked to argue it was a tactical move.

He thought he could faintly make out the rest of the team, now voicing their concern. Sam’s voice was loudest, as it often was, booming above the rest but the sound was still intelligible as blood rushed through Scott’s ears insistently. He kept running, hoping that if he could dart from side to side enough, the challenge of a moving target would fool a former man of the military. Yes, it was probably stupid but Scott preferred it over the idea of testing the bullet vs. more density idea in his head.

The shadow of the gun barrel appeared, encompassing every direction Scott could run. He considered the options he had as the shadow began tracking his movements deftly, eliminating them all in a split second as the shadow darkened and grew. Steve said something then, lost in the repeating explosion in Scott’s ears, and Ross may or may not have replied. The avengers still did not move, seemingly, and Scott knew he was on his own for the moment.

In a last ditch attempt to lose Ross’s attention, Scott threw himself sideways over a nearby pen, vaulting the shoulder height cylinder with ease as he continued to flee. Through the ringing of his ears he heard the gun fire again. And then the world exploded as if he’d stepped on a shell.

_—SPACE—_

Tony sat on the derelict remnants of the ship they had commandeered. Opposite him, perched on a similar ruin, Stephen Strange leant stiffly against a fragment of the ship’s hull, a thoughtful frown playing across his face. He seemed to be avoiding Tony’s eyes, maybe understandably seeing as Tony was happily sending a glare in his direction. It wasn’t exactly Strange’s fault; after all, Tony was already on edge having watched Peter’s disappearing figure as he bounded off to scavenge the crash site. He’d also had the unpleasant realisation that he was getting too old to be running around now the literal universe, and before that Earth. Tony wasn’t a fan of old age.

Strange had been out through the oddest acupuncture session Tony had ever seen, refusing firmly to give up the time stone, the necklace he wore still embellished with the same magic that protected it from Ebony Maw, one of Thanos’s associates. Stark had been biding his time in the rafters of the ship, when Peter Parker, irritatingly stubborn and caught up in the ‘excitement’ of saving the world, decided to show himself. It was fair to say, Tony spent a great deal of time wondering why he hadn’t secured the parachute with some sort of unbreakable glue, or else found some other way of sending the boy back down to Earth safely. Because, as he had told him harshly under his breath several times over, Thanos was in a new league compared to the street crime he was used to dealing with.

And although they managed to remove Ebony Maw using one of Peter’s crackpot, movie plot plans, Tony was never going to admit to the younger boy that he was being useful. Better to let him think he was better off on his home planet, Tony decided early on, at least, it would be better if they stood a chance of getting home again. Maybe it wouldn’t happen again, he thought logically, if there was ever a chance that it might.

And things would have been so much more simple, he’d realised, deepening his frown considerably, had Peter been a little less stubborn. The younger boy was clearly developing far too many of Tony’s bad character traits from spending so much time around him, and this only made the older man more frustrated. He’d meant every word he said, about the suit, about the guilt and the blame.

_“But I wanted to be like you.”_

_“I wanted you to be better.”_

Truth be told, not having a present father for much of his childhood had left Tony with a feeling of incompleteness. Peter was a way to fill that, to live vicariously through a new kid on the block; to see the milestones get crossed. Peter was going to graduate. Hey, maybe he’d get married. Buy his first car and later, his first house. Of course Peter was going to do that, before he followed Tony to a planet with no way of getting home.

Then there was his aunt. Worried at home, Tony expected, waiting for Peter to arrive home on the school bus and then seeing his mentor on the TV, announced as missing. And her son was gone too, with the suit she now knew about and never seemed happy discussing it. What would she think? After the conversations the two of them had.

After she found Peter in full Spider-Man mode, the distraught teenager had called Tony the very next day. He’d explained in a rush, something to Happy, serious enough to get the other man to get Stark on the line.

_“Found more of my planes, kid?” Tony had asked and then Peter let it all out. He was scared she’d take the suit off him, somehow, or otherwise find a way of locking him in his room forever. And it was such a teenage worry; a fear of getting grounded indefinitely, when he’d stood in front of Captain America, with his shield under one arm. After taking on some of the best heroes in the world, Peter was still frightened of insignificant consequences. Everything is relative, he told Tony when the man brought all of this up. Stark expected another suit argument, trying to get Peter to see that he was the suit and the name and everything that came with it. It wasn’t the costume that made the hero, it was the thing they did that got them noticed._

_“I don’t know what I’d do without Spider-Man,” Peter finished what mush have been a five minute inner monologue. Tony would have hated to be stuck in his head for too long._

_“Let me talk to her,” he offered after a moment’s pause, “She’ll get it if it comes from me.”_

She didn’t get it, Tony later decided although he never told Peter that. Aunt May was like a lot of people and there was nothing wrong with that but all she seemed to say was that Peter was like her son and why did her son have to be Spider-Man? What gave him the sense of duty to look after the world, the neighbourhood, now the universe? Why was everyone else exempt from that?

Tony didn’t have an answer to that question, nor did he think he ever would. Pepper always asked the same. They were settling down, he was quietly persuading her to think about children but he was starting to realise why she was reluctant. It was how every ‘break’ started; Tony’s work would become before everything. It was the job, he’d always argue back when she finally got fed up, he knew what he’d signed up for.

Peter had to understand, he rationalised in his head, that stowing away on a foreign spaceship was a one way ticket off the planet. They’d ended up somewhere without the insignificant pressure of geometry homework, but the added threat of the imminent arrival of a titan, and the high probability of death soon after.

_And he was just a kid._

“I thought I had you all worked out,” Strange caught his attention with a calculated glance, “The whole getting married thing was a little harder to place but, you were always just Iron Man; a little arrogant, to say the least, fending for yourself, et cetera.”

“And now?” Tony asked with a raised eyebrow. He tried to refrain from leaning forwards too far, not wanting to show how interested he really was in hearing an outsider’s perspective, even if it was an outsider he was yet to warm up to.

“The kid,” the cloaked man replied simply, leaving a long gap as if it was evident, “Tony Stark is actually concerned about another human being before himself.”

“You know, the avengers saved lives,” Tony argued back bitterly, hating to bring up the group that was not so much a group anymore, “If that isn’t putting people first, I don’t know what is.” Dr. Strange smiled to himself cryptically for a while and then shook his head.

“You misunderstand me,” he explained impatiently, “That was putting _people_ first. This, this is putting one person before you. It’s harder, I hear.” He shrugged his shoulder and returned to scrutinising a half-buried sheet of metal with a pensive interest.

“It’s a responsibility,” Tony waved off the sentiment, “The kid has a family, albeit a small one, and you know, homework, as he tells me repetitively. I rather not have young blood on my hands.” Stephen gestured at Tony as if this proved his point, elaborating somewhat reluctantly.

“So you’d feel responsible if he died,” he summarised indicatively, “That means you’re putting him first. Because you’d rather sacrifice yourself so the kid doesn’t miss his next math test, or whatever.” Tony laughed humourlessly as he glanced down at his hands, brushing away every shred of reluctant agreement that threatened to spill from his mouth.

“Firstly, the kid is called Peter,” he held up one finger, and then another, “Secondly, he doesn’t have a dad and-”

“You’re trying to fill a hole?” Strange seemed to find that amusing as he smirked softly to himself.

“No,” Tony replied indignantly, “I’m trying to be a mentor, to pass on something to him because he’s been lacking role models for most of his life. And whilst I am seriously shit at being a role model to anyone, Steve ‘could do no wrong’ Rogers is currently a wanted fugitive. I was the only one available so he’s had to make do.”

“And you’re doing an excellent job,” Strange said, at first eliciting a frustrated growl from Tony until the latter noticed his faintly joking expression. He shook his head disapprovingly, allowing a very small smile to escape, aimed sharply towards the ground.

“Perhaps you’d like to set a better example,” he suggested with a forced, sickly sweet look on his face. Stephen laughed, perhaps a little sadly and looked up with a slightly more melancholy expression.

“I’ve been told that I can be a bit of an asshole,” he stated mildly, “And had I wanted to set a good example, I’d have turned that ship around and taken us home.” Tony looked quizzical for a moment.

“Your point being?” he inquired curiously.

“You can look out for one person or you can look out for people,” Strange looked almost kind, “Doing both is impossible, because if saving people takes a sacrifice, of them or you, either way you’re letting them down.” Tony was about to remark that Peter could manage without him just fine, when the boy himself emerged from the other side of the shipwreck empty handed.

“Has inspiration struck?” Tony asked, regaining his usual carefree attitude. Meanwhile, he continued to internally turn the words over in his head. Save people or save Peter? Be a role model or be a hero? Was there that much of a difference? Would knowing that make him a better father figure to anyone?

“Well, Mr. Stark,” Peter began with that smile of a child who had a life ahead of him, unlike the person he really was, stuck on an entirely different planet. “I watched this film once, called The Martian.”

Both Tony and Strange suppressed eye rolls and sighs, settling back into their makeshift seats and preparing to have another film spoiled for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Running a little bit late today but here it is anyway!
> 
> I’ll definitely be regretting staying up this late tomorrow morning :)
> 
> Also, Happy Father's Day! I hope you enjoy Tony being a complete dad (and Strange trying to be too)


	7. 3 in 4 Times, It's Complicated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott wakes up
> 
> Steve knows a place
> 
> Peter lashes out

_—EARTH—_  
It wasn’t quite waking up. There was something plugging his ears, the lack of ambient sound dragging his mind back towards sleep. Scott shifted his limbs experimentally, feeling only a slight ache, and opened his eyes, snapping them closed at the blinding light. So that was two of his senses overloaded.

He risked his vision again, scanning his eyes across the sight dominated by a white tiled ceiling, noting that he had returned to his usual size and registering the discomfort of lying on the floor. Something touched his shoulder for a second and he recoiled reflexively, still blinking the light from his eyes.

“Just me, Lang,” Clint’s voice pushed through the cotton wool stuffed in his ears. Scott swung his head sideways to look at the familiar man who leaned back on his heels with a worn look approaching weariness. “You’re really making a habit out of this, eh?”

“Not intentionally,” he mumbled in reply, lifting his head so his chin rested forwards onto his chest and surveying the room. The desk had been upturned completely, scattering the array of pens and stationary further across the floor, the computer lying smashed nearby. The tabletop was littered with a couple of bullet holes, throwing up a cloud of sawdust and wood splinters. His eyes finally rested on the small group of people that remained clustered at the doorway.

Black Widow, who Scott was yet to meet formally, seemed mostly uninterested in the state of the room, her scrutinising gaze occasionally wandering over Clint’s back, the sign of a protective partner. Scott realised the two of them had been apart for some time. He wandered if, given the time, he and Hope would have built the same level of trust. Had she taken over for him? He’d not seen her since the house arrest began.

Sam watched Scott with slightly more sympathy. He flashed a brief smile in his direction as he checked over a small pile of equipment that had been left in one corner. They were all fully geared up, Scott noticed, with Sam’s wings still folded behind his back, red goggles resting above his forehead. They all made an odd group.

And the leader, Captain America himself, looking far more rugged than Scott could remember, sporting a full beard that was a few days overdue a shave, his dark blue uniform battle worn and fading. He caught Scott looking as he stared around the room distractedly, mustering a polite smile and nodding in what looked like approval.

Scott tested his arm cautiously before lifting it to the side of his head in salute and nodding in reply.

“Captain,” he greeted with a weak grin playing across his face. There was something exhilarating enough about getting the team back together that seemed to negate the effects of almost getting blown to bits by a bullet.

“Scott,” Steve replied with a similar expression, joining Clint in a crouch on the floor and running a mental check to make an inventory of possible injuries. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“We were planning on joining all of you, just not in these circumstances,” Clint spoke up with another weathered grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling with reluctant fondness. “Unfortunately, our recently formed partnership seems to lead to this sort of trouble naturally.” Scott sat up indignantly, catching himself steadily with one arm as he overbalanced. Clint’s automatically reaching arms drew back with a calculated glance.

“And how did you get out of the locked room?” Scott asked quizzically. Clint shrugged, reaching up to the back of his neck and pulling out a narrow hair clip.

“I heard gunshots and thought of you,” he replied in a sarcastic tone before waving the piece of metal in his hands, “Let’s just say I decided to show a bit of urgency. I keep one of these under the top layer of my hair at all times; it’s pretty handy for getting out of locked rooms.” Scott frowned and opened his mouth to make a point before Clint beat him to it with a faint smirk.

“Yes, I know I didn’t mention it before,” he cut him off with another mischievous grin before turning serious, “Which was a mistake, in hindsight. But I wasn’t expecting us to run into any problems so I thought I’d keep the trick up my sleeve.” At this, Bruce appeared at the door, wearing a sheepish expression to match his uncertain posture.

“Scott,” he greeted with an undertone of what sounded like relief, “Clint has already made the situation very clear, but if you’d like to vent a little-” He held his arms open as an invitation for Scott to complain but he flashed an amused smile in Clint’s direction and waved the other man off.

“Where is Ross anyway?”

“We don’t need to worry about him anymore,” Steve interjected cryptically, his eyes already wandering away from the other three men and back towards the pile of equipment. Scott’s head whipped around in surprise and he narrowed his eyes, stuttering a little.

“I know he shot at me and all,” he stammered slightly, “But do you mean that you, you know? Killed him?” He lowered his voice as he spoke, ending at a low whisper and glaring at Clint who suppressed a laugh poorly next to him. Steve, meanwhile, redirected his attention towards him in alarm and backed up.

“What? No, of course not,” he replied with raised eyebrows, “Why would you think that?”

“It might have been something to do with ‘not needing to worry about him anymore,’ maybe,” Bruce supplied helpfully as he leant against the nearby wall, running a hand over his hair with another sheepish smile.

“That didn’t even sound ominous, did it?” Steve asked with slightly wide eyes, directing his appeal at an amused Clint.

“It did sound a little-” Clint paused to think, “Murdery.” Scott nodded in agreement from the floor, feeling his pulse rate calm considerably as he scratched responsibility for a potential death from his conscience.

“We may have to lie low again for some time,” Steve continued in a more serious tone, the familiar furrows of stress burying themselves deep into his forehead, “Now that Ross knows how far the two of you got in a couple of days.”

“Where are you planning on doing that?” Scott inquired curiously, “The world seems to be on high alert right now.” Steve smiled a little wistfully and tapped the side of his nose.

“I know a place.”

_—SPACE—_

Tony was crouched behind one of the metal supports in the spaceship, at such an angle that Peter had to crane his neck to catch sight of the man from his own hiding place. The ‘wizard’ was completely out of sight, somewhere in the front of the ship, although Peter could hear the low hum of heated conversation and the occasional grunt of pain.

“Mr. Stark?” he attempted to whisper softly from his position, preemptively wincing as the older man turned around painfully slowly with a glare predictably painted across his face. Peter held his hands up in way of a peace offering and crept across the narrow metal platform between them. He rounded the column between the two of them, stopping behind Tony as he ran a hand through his hair, his fingers wavering slightly.

“You never do what you’re told to,” the other man told Peter tiredly, “Did you listen to what I told you before?” Peter nodded his head firmly because yes, he had hung on to every word. Yes, he would be more responsible. Yes, he would be more careful.

“ _Better,_ ” Tony repeated harshly under his breath, pressing a single, pointed finger against Peter’s chest, “You’re meant to be better. And that means you have some ability to follow instructions.” He turned away at the sound of another drawn out cry, facing away from Peter to conceal the frown that deepened across his forehead at the noise. Below them, in the body of the ship, Dr. Strange was surrounded by these ethereal white needles, his hands clenched in fists at his sides.

“What’s happening?” Peter risked a question, holding his breath across the drawn out silence as he awaited some form of response. Tony’s shoulders sagged in front of him, a final release of tension. The older man wanted to protect Peter, or course, but there came a point when ignorance was more dangerous than being shielded.

“Voodoo acupuncture from the look of it,” he replied over his shoulder, checking the read outs on his suit to check for further life forms. They were alone.

“So I watched this film once-”

Peter awoke with an uncomfortable stretch, his limbs splayed like a starfish across the narrow sheet of metal he had made his bed on. The spaceship, the setting of his dream, still lay half buried in the endless sand of the planet they had crash landed on. He closed his eyes briefly for a moment, having noticed the lack of a sun in the sky, but only felt the pressure of that finger against his beating heart. Better; whatever that was supposed to mean. Peter didn’t know how Tony had spent his childhood, but he couldn’t help but be curious. After all, if he was being told to be better, he surely needed a benchmark to judge his performance from. That was how the tests at school worked.

And he couldn’t get the nagging idea out of his head that this was more than a mid-term exam at school. It wasn’t a paper he could flunk and retake after school the week after. It wasn’t a chemical reaction that could be mopped up with a couple of paper towels if it overspilled the beaker. And it wasn’t a math problem with a fixed method to find the solution. As much as Peter hated to admit it, the appeal of looking after just a few streets in New York was growing by the second. It didn’t quite require the same amount of intergalactic travel, after all.

But New York led to Aunt May, and MJ and Ned. It led back to familiarity and predictable patterns, the sort of thing Peter found comfort in. He didn’t like the break in routine, or the sudden change in surroundings, where the one speck of his old reality existed in the form of Tony, who was still undoubtedly angry at him for disobeying his direct orders. And, to be honest, Peter was starting to be angry at himself.

“I thought teenagers slept for an eternity whenever they got the chance,” the man himself remarked from across the sand. Peter propped his head up on one elbow and shifted so he could see Tony, who sat with his hands draped across his raised knees in the sand. He shrugged, glancing back out across the barren wasteland, failing to spot the sight of a single rock, never mind a landmark, in every direction.

“I wasn’t going to stop you from getting your beauty sleep, kid,” Tony continued despite the lack of interaction, “I’m sure May knows better than to wake you without a full eight hours.” Peter ducked his head to hide the glimmer of pain that flashed through his eyes rapidly. He closed them to block out the red twilight of the foreign planet and the stifling heat shimmering above the desert. He hated to sound like a child, hated giving anyone a reason to keep referring to him as the kid, but he really wanted to go home.

“You know, sometimes people think someone is angry with them, when actually they just care,” Tony’s voice continued to breach the growing gap between Peter and the damn planet he’d got himself stranded on. The younger boy pressed his index fingers against his closed eyelids, tracing the patterns of green and blue light that the pressure created. He couldn’t be angry, he told himself firmly; Mr. Stark had given him a chance to turn back and he hadn’t. He deserved the torture of listening to the man vocalise his thoughts whenever he decided to.

“As in, I’m not angry with you,” Tony persisted, a similar frustration leaking into his tone as Peter had heard when he tried to wave off the praise last time, “And I expected that to cheer you up.” Peter blew a deep breath out through pursed lips, opening his eyes and, if the sky that greeted him hadn’t been a deep vermillion, he would definitely be seeing red regardless.

“This is nothing to do with you!” Peter waved a hand in front of himself and stood up sharply from the metal sheet. Tony’s head recoiled momentarily in surprise before he followed suit, pushing himself up from his seat calmly. He glanced towards the wizard man who was covered mostly by the odd red cape that seemed to have a mind of its own. Tony nodded his head around to the back of the ship, standing still until Peter reluctantly dragged his feet in the right direction.

“It’s complicated and you don’t understand, Mr. Stark,” he rounded on the other man as soon as they were out of earshot. Tony stood almost patiently. “You’re always angry at me for one reason or another, so I don’t care about that. I’ve left everything, again, for some battle on a new planet. Who knows where we are in the universe? Who knows when I’m going to get back? Because I don’t, and that doesn’t do much to improve my mood.” He inhaled the dry air sharply, turning away to face the bleak horizon to save himself the disappointment of watching Tony’s face change.

“I’ve told you about sacrifices before, kid,” he replied eventually, “You make a choice every time you put that suit on to sacrifice one thing and prioritise another. You choose the difficult option.”

“I wish I didn’t,” Peter’s voice was small now, almost pitiful but undercut with a hint of frustration and weariness. He scuffed a small pile of sand with his shoe, sending the grains scattering in every direction.

“No you don’t,” Tony told him firmly, stating the fact in that self-assured tone that made everything seem like a fact. The tone that Peter could attempt to mimic in his bedroom mirror all day but would always miss that small store of arrogance he needed to pull it off.

“You don’t know that,” he accused, rounding again on the older man, “I’m not like you. I’m not a better version of who you used to be. I’m just me; that’s all I want to be.”

“A kid from Queens who wants to get into engineering one day?” Tony asked with a scrutinising glance, “Because everyone’s heard that origin story before, kid. Most kids in America have had that dream at some point in their life.” Peter shrugged obstinately and angled himself away from Tony once more, still kicking at the dust, sending clouds of it spiralling across the flat landscape ahead of them.

“I want to be normal again,” he tried to elaborate, his hands waving in front of him although Tony couldn’t see, “I want to be at home, away from this planet. I don’t want to know that the world is ending until it starts to and I realise there was nothing I could have done in the first place. You talked about responsibility, Mr. Stark, and I just don’t think I’m ready for that.”

“You decided to be ready when you let your parachute return to Earth without you attached to it,” Tony interrupted again, moving so he was stood to one side of Peter, still watching him closely, “You made the difficult decision, and you’ve just got to get used to the sacrifice.”

“We’re going to die here,” Peter tried to state the speculation factually, “Thanos will do it, or we’ll be stranded here with no way home.” Tony shrugged, an oddly comforting gesture, reassuring Peter in a way that no sugarcoated lie would have managed. It was then that Peter noticed the slight shadows beneath Tony’s eyes, and the tiredness that pinched the lines in the creases of his eyes. He looked worn too, and fed up with everything, as if he too had made some last, great sacrifice.

“We all have loose ends that might never get tied up,” Tony said suddenly, as if he could hear the silent question in Peter’s quiet observation, “You need to accept that.” His voice hardened again slightly and Peter reverted to his role as a student, nodding his head as if such a lesson could be fully comprehended just like that. He would never conclude some chapters of his life – easy enough to understand, right?

“And now?”

“We wait for Thanos to turn up here,” Tony instructed confidently, “And we try to prepare ourselves in the best possible way.” He brought his hand down to rest on Peter’s shoulder briefly, clapping against it once and then twice before the pressure disappeared.

“What about after that?” Peter couldn’t help himself, “If we win?”

“We find a way home,” Tony replied softly, lowering his voice further, “Somehow.” He stepped forwards, scanning his eyes across the perfectly flat horizon, hazy from the temperature and flat for miles to see.

“And if we lose, I suppose that will be one less thing for us to worry about,” he continued eventually, before facing Peter head on, “Steve Rogers once told me that we would face things together and if we failed, we’d do that together too. And he’s been around forever, so if any wise bullshit should be considered sensible, wise bullshit, I guess he’s a sensible as they get.” Peter smiled slightly at the sudden look of fondness that crossed Tony’s face in a way he’d never seen before when Captain America was mentioned. He wondered if the distance was doing the two of them some good, and that maybe they’d be able to move past some misunderstanding in favour of saving the planet.

“Steve would make a good mentor for you,” Tony interjected into Peter’s musings suddenly, “He’ll know what to do with you.” Peter frowned for a moment and then opened his mouth to reply, before shutting it. Something about the future tense without Tony unsettled him, a constricting feeling of unease coiling itself around his stomach and squeezing hard.

“Brighten up kid,” Tony’s usual demeanour returned more permanently, “I thought it was every child’s dream to talk to Captain America.”

Peter didn’t tell him that he’d always been more fascinated by the Iron Man, by the one who redirected a missile away from his home. He didn’t tell him about the discomfort that rested itself across his chest as he hung onto that previous statement, or the thought that accompanied it, overwhelming him from the inside out. Tony wasn’t planning a future that included himself in it, he was expecting to die.

Peter didn’t tell him that he’d seen his fair share of death. Or that, with what little family he had left, the man who was merely meant to be a mentor had become more than that. 

He didn’t tell him that he didn’t want another member of his family to die before he could say goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, update schedule out of the window, here’s a late update :)
> 
> I got a little too invested in my other story and wrote a lot of that and none of this for a while. But, I also discovered the perfect cure to writer's block over Peter and Tony - read depressing things about one of the most dying and the other being upset :p
> 
> I think I’ve got back into a certain sense of rhythm, so I'll aim for an update this weekend! Thank you for reading :)


	8. 3 in 3 Exciting Events Happen in New York

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor mourns the deaths of... everyone
> 
> Rocket tries to be a captain 
> 
> Clint and Scott get left behind... again

_—SPACE—_

Rocket spun in the driver’s seat of the small escape pod for the tenth time in five minutes. Each time, he attempted to pass off the concerned glance as a chore, clicking his tongue under his breath in mock exasperation as if taking over from Quill was a job he didn’t want. It was a little unnecessary, seeing as Groot was still more captivated by the achingly slow pixels dance across the small screen of his game, rather than the nebulae and comet showers that cruised past them every so often.

The object of Rocket’s interest was not the young tree, however, but rather the enigmatic man who sat behind the two guardians, his chin rested on one open palm, fingers drumming an unsteady pattern across the whispers of facial hair that climbed his jawline. Eventually, flicking a switch that out the plane into autopilot (something Rocket could have done half an hour ago, if he hadn’t been looking for an excuse to stay distracted), he pushed himself up from the chair once and for all, huffing as if it took some degree of effort and joining the godly figure in the main compartment of the ship.

“So, you have a plan?” His hands darted across the holster strapped to his leg and he played with the safety catch lazily, with a lack of concern that he may blow his own leg off that would have set Gamora’s eyes in a deep frown. Thor glanced up, shaking the preoccupied look from his eyes and nodding thoughtfully.

“A simple one, Rabbit,” he replied, lapsing into a silence that was filled only by the soft sounds of Groot’s game, “I am searching for a weapon that can defeat Thanos. I will retrieve it and then-” He paused and shrugged nonchalantly, waving his hands in front of him. 

“Defeat Thanos?” Rocket tried helpfully, watching as Thor nodded in agreement. “Is that really the plan?” This sent the man into a deeper stupor and Rocket bit back a curse under his breath. Eventually he glanced up from his inspection of the floor with slightly more determined eyes.

“He killed my people,” Thor explained softly, his tone lilting and wilting in places, “He took my friends, he beat my allies, he murdered my brother.” Thor looked away again as if his head had been knocked to one side with a sudden force. He raised a hand to one temple, rubbing at it subconsciously.

“He was going to kill me.”

_The ship was in ruin, a shell of its former self and littered with the bodies of an entire population. Thor saw all of this from his compromised position between Thanos’ side and his arm, wrapped around the god’s neck. Loki was bouncing on his heels as the unfamiliar metal gauntlet came to rest against Thor’s temple._

_The pain was blinding but temporary. Although he would never have recommended it to anyone, Thor was so accustomed to the dull ache of loss running though his mind that the constant reminder seemed to serve as therapy. He bit back a groan under his breath, steeling himself against the fresh wave of burning, watching a few charred hairs join the dust and debris on the floor. His head, constricted by the vice-like grip of the Titan next to him, fought to pull away from the glowing purple stone, his mind growing foggy and pulling away from the muted shouts in the room._

_“Okay. Fine!” Loki’s voice cut through the mist eventually, his hands held up in surrender, splayed fingers trembling slightly. Thor glanced up as the pain withdrew, blinking the darkness away from the corners of his vision. Thanos was impatient, his hand gesturing to the bedraggled man in front of it._

_“The tesseract was lost when Asgard fell,” Thor wheezed as Thanos’ hold tightened in warning. His eyes met his brother’s, pleading with him not to risk his own life. Alas, he met only a look of deep regret, Loki’s tumultuous eyes fixing on his for a moment before darting away as if ashamed. He gestured behind his back, producing the glowing cube and watching it bounce the ethereal blue light around the lifeless ship. His eyes met Thor’s once more and the older brother almost saw his lips move in a silent apology as he handed the cube over hesitantly._

_“So you didn’t quite fail me after all,” Thanos mused under his breath, the deep rumination echoing through the hull of the spacecraft dully. Thor slumped in his hold with a deep exhalation, glancing up in time to see a cloud of blue shards fall to the ground. He felt the tremor that ran through the titan’s body as the stone snapped into place, joining the first stone and immediately doubling the threat._

_“You shouldn’t underestimate me,” Loki replied swiftly, his eyes darting again to one side, “After all, we have a hulk.”_

“You don’t have much family left, huh?” Rocket prompted the silent man, stirring him from his thoughts.

“None at all,” Thor replied in a matter of fact tone, failing to hide the tension growing in his shoulders, “My father – he wasn’t the man I had always allowed myself to think of him as. My mother was killed some years ago. I was responsible for my sister’s death. And my brother, it is as I have already said.”

_The battle was swift and unsuccessful. Thor winced each time Banner’s body connected with walls, floors and discarded pieces of ship. The green incarnation of his friend stood up each time, until, with a final exhalation, Heimdall, whispering on stolen breath, evacuated the unconscious giant in a flurry of sparks. It cost him his life, and Thor another part of his soul._

_Loki had appeared from the shadows again at the mention of Earth, offering his services, head bowed to the floor with loyalty._

_“No!” Thor called out from the restraints he now found himself in, the sound muffled by the strip of metal encasing his face. Loki avoided his glare, the younger man reverting to his old ways of getting by the simple way, leaching off of others. Thanos seemed faintly interested, extending a cautious, questioning invitation to the hesitating man in front of him._

_“I have been to Earth before, many times,” Loki explained, edging closer with each word._

_“You failed your mission,” Thanos argued back relentlessly._

_“Experience is experience.” Loki was close enough that he had to look up to see Thanos’ thoughtful expression. “I have already brought you one stone.” Thor struggled against the bonds again, grunting against the metal cuff with effort._

_“Allow me to bring you another,” Loki continued, his hand playing with the torn fabric of his clothing, visible only to Thor. The older brother watched a silver dagger materialise before his eyes and seconds later, it was inches from Thanos’ heart. The titan laughed cruelly, an invisible force pushing against Loki’s confident action. With a wave of one finger, the knife clattered to the ground, the metallic sound reverberating around the chasm once more. Loki spared Thor one last glance before the hand closed around his neck._

“And if we fail?” Rocket sat down opposite Thor, slumping into a lower down seat with a sigh. He threw a small blaster up and down in his hand, catching it after each lazy flip through the air. Whilst his hands remained occupied, however, his gaze was calculating and certain, eyes following every rise and fall of the god’s chest.

“What more can I lose?” Thor asked delicately, resting his palms across the metal plates of his leg armour. He blinked away the purple flames that had tore away at the shell of Asgard. He shook the desperate cries from his head. He ignored the sensation of Loki’s clothes resting against his cheek and hands as he lay over his brother protectively. “The world is cold and unforgiving, Rabbit. You would do well to remember such a fact.” 

Rocket avoided the urge to seek out Groot as the tree lay across his chair comfortably. He allowed his eyes to soften for a moment at the thought of the guardians before hardening more firmly than before. He glanced up from his hands with a frown.

“Well, I still have a hell of a lot to lose,” he retorted, “And I don’t intend on giving them up any time soon.” One corner of Thor’s mouth lifted in an attempt at a smile and he watched Rocket return to the front of the ship wistfully. 

He longed for the wisdom of Bruce, the hope of Steve, the strength of Tony. And then he realised that not all was lost just yet.

_—NEW YORK, EARTH—_

“Wakanda?” Clint repeated as he followed Steve back and forth between the quinjet and the entrance to the Avengers facility. “Doesn’t the king of that country slightly hate us?”

“I’ll take slight hatred right now,” Steve replied drily throwing a quirked eyebrow over his shoulder, “And regardless, he let Buck stay there so he can’t be holding too much of a grudge.” Bruce came up behind them, carrying a reinforced steel box of equipment.

“We’re also way past grudges,” he reminded them, the tiredness seeping into his tone before he continued walking, muttering under his breath, “And Tony was just the same. The two of you are so similar – you might as well make up.”

Steve exchanged a glance with Clint before hefting another box under his arm and gazing thoughtfully across the rolling hills behind the facility. It was mid-afternoon, just days after the spaceship had loomed above the cityscape. You wouldn’t have been able to tell; it was quiet, the still air devoid of screaming car alarms, the clear sky free of acrid smoke. There was an unease to the silence, although every silence was punctuated with unease for an assassin, and Clint tried to shake the prickling sensation that ran down his neck. He’d got too dependent on his own paranoia, having been apart from everyone else.

“You ever talk to Tony?” he asked casually. Steve shrugged one shoulder, still looking solemn.

“I sent him a letter, and a phone,” he replied and Clint nodded, having seen the scratched device that Bruce had pocketed in his jacket that morning, “After all of this is over, that’s when we’ll talk.” Barton bit back the all too bitter smile that crept across his face – that Captain America optimism shining through like the sun burning through thick cloud cover. Steve seemed to notice, although his observations only sent a similar expression playing across his face.

“Hope does us no harm,” he explained softly, “And, I suppose, in one way or another this will come to an end. I’d sooner die for this planet than see it be destroyed.” Clint always knew this (it came with being in the presence of too many self-sacrificial superheroes) but hearing a friend preemptively assume his own death did nothing good for the paranoia creeping down his back.

“You are a walking ray of sunshine, Rogers,” Sam commented as he walked past, his wings carried under one arm and red goggles hanging around his neck. Clint snorted under his breath, nodding from behind Steve in agreement. Steve shrugged his shoulder again with a lopsided smile and turned to head for the plane once more. He stopped halfway and turned around to face Clint.

“Do you want to stay here?” It was a simple question, no bad intentions, no patronising tone. Clint opened his mouth to immediately reply in the negative when a thought came to mind. He mulled it over for a few moments, catching sight of Scott talking animatedly with an unimpressed Natasha. He watched her stance with a slight smile; far from tense and battle ready, she was relaxed and actually enjoying the other man’s company. Of course, he’d never be aware of that fact unless she told him on his deathbed, and if he were to work it out for himself, Clint imagined that Scott himself would be numbering his days.

“There’s a sanctuary here, for wizards I think,” Clint speculated, “We stayed there for a night when we met up with Bruce. There was a man there.” Steve nodded, scratching his beard with his free hand and turning back to look across New York.

“He could help,” Steve reasoned, “But we could use your help, and Scott’s, in Wakanda. Thanos will come for Vision eventually.” Clint winced surreptitiously, reminded of the conversations he’d listened to as Scott came round.

_“Thanos is searching for the infinity stones, Captain, he will come looking for mine. It should be destroyed before it can do any harm.”_

_“That level of energy, Steve, it wouldn’t be practical unless-”_

_“Me?”_

_“Wanda, it would not be fair of me to ask but I fear-”_

_“We do not trade lives.”_

_“For the safety of the universe? When you would lay your life down for the planet?”_

_“No one will die unjustly for this cause.”_

“We could join you later,” Clint offered, his instincts tying him down to New York, to familiarity. “With Tony gone, this place needs some protection nearby.” Steve nodded eventually, his eyes trailing across to Natasha and Scott, biting his lip thoughtfully.

“You need Nat,” Clint said for him, sighing under his breath at the thought of leaving without his partner all over again, “I’ll take Scott.” 

“And she’ll be okay with that?” Steve questioned before rolling his eyes to himself, “She’s hardly going to kick up a fuss.” For some reason, the image of Natasha ‘kicking up a fuss’ provoked a low chuckle in Clint before he shook his head.

“I shouldn’t think so,” he said disappointedly, “Although I would pay a lot of money to see that.”

The plane was eventually loaded with everything the team could possibly need. Clint and Scott were left, one with a bow and quiver of arrows under one arm, the other with a suit thrown over his shoulder. The facility was quiet once more, devoid even of the quiet conversations between Rhodes and the holograms of Ross and his associates. Bruce was the last to board the jet, stopping at the ramp like a reluctant parent leaving a child at school.

“Wong might have a way of contacting Dr. Strange,” he reminded Clint in his usual, nervous manner, “But Clint, that doesn’t mean you should go to a different planet if he can send you there. We’ve lost Thor. We’ve lost Tony. We don’t need to lose either of you.”

“I’m not one for intergalactic travel, doc,” he promised with a smirk, “And I think Scott has seen enough excitement for a week or so.” The man besides him nodded amusedly, holding a hand out for Bruce to shake.

“It was nice to meet you,” he smiled warmly as Bruce accepted his handshake, “Maybe we’ll see each other again soon.”

“Let’s hope so,” Bruce replied with a pointed stare in Clint’s direction that sent the other man withering under the gaze, “We’re going to need all the help we can get now.”

Minutes later the branches of the nearby trees merely quivered in the memory of the jet taking off, the sound of the engines growing distant as the plane disappeared from view. The city beyond the hills was just the same; quiet, undisturbed, all too accustomed to globally shocking events to be all that shocked. Clint noticed an idle smile cross Scott’s face and he glanced at him questioningly.

“The first time Hank asked me for help,” Scott explained, referring to Dr. Pym, “I told him to go to the avengers. This time, we’re the avengers. Everyone else is too far away to help; it’s up to us.”

“And of course they leave it to the guy that shrinks and the guy that still uses arrows,” Clint replied, nudging his shoulder with a grin, “Seems sensible.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, is this another update?
> 
> I’m really trying to get out of the completely canon compliant bit so I’m not just retelling infinity war and there will be some fundamental changes coming next chapter, but for now I need to get exposition out of the way. Sorry :)


	9. 1 in 3 People Suffer Numerous Poetic Injustices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> T'Challa reflects
> 
> Peter promises
> 
> Wong has an idea

_—WAKANDA, EARTH—_

Outside, the stillness of the endless plains of Africa stretched away across the horizon, an unsettled calm descending on the untouched landscape. The calls of tribes and gentle hum of industry fell away in the whispers of the wind as the great country gave way to desert and dense jungle.

Inside, controlled panic. T’Challa paced the throne room, endless energy keeping him moving, thoughts sounding to the beat of his heavy feet on the smooth marble. He could feel the eyes of Shuri following him with a calculated accuracy only she possessed as she kept her distance. Finally, he waved a hand in the direction of a set of screens, playing footage from the day before in America, reports of missing Avengers, escaped fugitives, alien invasions.

“It is a mess,” he said wearily and she raised one eyebrow in reply, “They call themselves a team? Tony Stark vanishes at the first sight of danger; Mr. Barton and Mr. Lang can’t stay out under house arrest. Your ‘White Wolf’ is no better.” Shuri barely suppressed a snort at that, shaking her head with clear disagreement.

“Bucky Barnes is not _my_ anything, brother,” she replied smartly, “And now it should be _you_ calling _yourselves_ a team. There’s no escaping it; you’re one of them now.” T’Challa rolled his eyes dejectedly and looked out across the stillness of the surrounding landscape grimly.

“I fear, if that is the case, that we have placed a great burden within our borders,” he muttered to himself, “Wakanda is strong, sister, but it can not withstand everything.”

“Lighten up, T’Challa!” Shuri complained playfully, “Being the king has really ruined your sense of humour… or your ability to feel positive emotions.” He rolled his eyes again, pivoting on his feet to place his back to the window and the undisturbed peace.

“You won’t be saying the same when they come to us for help,” he reminded her with a wry grin, “Mark my words.”

His attention was attracted by a pulsing beacon of red light coming from the corner of one screen. He shot Shuri his trademark ‘told you so’ look before shooing her from the room (something the young princess was never pleased about) and addressing the proximity warning. It was a moderately sized plane, flying with intent towards the southern border, clearly on target to hit the boundaries.

“Captain Rogers,” he said, unsurprised as he recognised the quinjet’s radio frequency, “I assume this is not an informal visit.” The radio crackled with the static of a tired plane for a moment before the reply rang through.

“Your highness,” Steve replied formally, albeit peppered with exhaustion, “I have reliable information pertaining to the motive of the invasion yesterday that may be of interest to you. We’re potentially four or five fighters down already and would appreciate your help or Bucky’s.” T’Challa turned away from the speaker to sigh slowly. It had been a risk, opening the borders to a more open relationship with the rest of the world, but one he had almost been relieved to take. There was a monotony to life in an enclosed bubble and a disconnect with the news they watched from around the world. It felt like a 24/7 tv drama, seeing the events happening mere hours away from Wakanda. And the king couldn’t help but feel selfish, useless almost, when innocent lives were sacrificed as opposed to Wakanda offering its help.

“The borders are opening now, Captain,” he replied, a hint of a smile playing on his face, “Welcome back to Wakanda.” He clicked the receiver off and sent a command through to deactivate a section of the surrounding boundary. 

Behind him, Shuri fist pumped the air with childish glee as she watched on from around the corner, her head poking out from a column, not all that subtly.

_—KNOWHERE, SPACE—_

The once bustling hive of activity that was Knowhere seemed to be lacking its usual exuberance as the guardians touched down outside of the main core. It was a seedy area, not for the faint hearted, but the narrow streets were never running short of odd beings from one planet or another, all of them with something a little outlandish to trade. But not anymore.

It was unsettling, although Peter Quill attempted to stay positive. Empty and abandoned maybe, but the Collector had too many belongings that he couldn’t bare to leave. No, the one man they needed would be there. And with Gamora at his side, Peter felt alive in the most lifeless of places, although that feeling came with a pinch of salt ever since a short conversation shared between them hours before.

_She had been leant against the same pillar in the upstairs section of the ship for some time. Peter was tinkering with a panel of wiring, as he often did to settle his nerves, but couldn’t help noticing her vacant, noncommittal replies to everything he said._

_“What’s wrong?” he asked eventually, standing up from where he had been knelt on the floor uncomfortably and heading across the room. Never one for subtleties, Peter tended to dive into a sensitive subject headfirst, closing his eyes without ever having looked down to see what was coming. He didn’t expect the welling moisture in her eyes or the unfamiliar unsteadiness in her voice._

_“Can you promise me something?” she asked softly, glancing up at him and slipping a pale green hand into his own. “Seriously, Peter. Seriously, promise me.”_

_“You tell me what it is first,” he replied easily, “Yondu may have used me mostly because I was small but he taught me well. You never walk into a deal blind.” Mentioning Yondu was always bittersweet for Peter – he hated the looks of sympathy that Mantis would cast in his direction discretely, as if she could feel the pain he felt trying to get the name out without splintering at he edges. But he liked to reminisce, if only for a minute, sometimes waking from a dream and yearning to return to an older time where the only thing that mattered was securing the next deal and avoiding being eaten by any of the ravagers._

_“I know something,” Gamora replied, her own face devoid of any visible sympathy although the light squeeze on his hand said otherwise, “I know something that he can’t know.” She had a way of saying ‘he,’ a certain tone, that only ever meant Thanos. Peter felt his own hands tightening around hers._

_“What are you saying?” he questioned insistently, because although he could sense the final destination of their conversation, he was determined to head down some detours first, if only to avoid those inevitable two words that would answer her request._

_“I can’t tell you because that would put you in danger,” she said sadly, “But I know something that Thanos needs to know. And all the whilst he doesn’t know, the universe is safe.” She broke off, watching him carefully, eyes faintly softening when she realised that Peter was well aware of her intentions._

_“I’d only ask if I trusted you.” Peter shook his head, eyes closed and frowning._

_“I know it’s horrible, but I would be grateful, the universe would be grateful.”_

_“Gamora!” Peter interrupted, although his voice cracked and he couldn’t quite find the words to continue. Because he was terrible at expressing himself in these situations. Because he’d never learnt how to phrase the simple statement. Because he didn’t know how to tell someone that they were his entire universe._

_“If he gets me, I have to die,” she said pointedly, now avoiding his eye line wit steely determination, as if the identical view of space from the window was suddenly interesting all over again. “There is no other way, Peter. Swear to me-”_

_“I can’t,” Peter began before stopping. And the truth was, maybe he could. It would be beyond despicable, it would be the worst thing he ever had to do. But Peter had done a lot, seen a lot. He wasn’t inexperienced around death either, in fact he seemed to act as a sort of magnet for it. Maybe it was just poetic justice that the one woman he truly loved was destined to die at his hand._

Gamora seemed no worse off after their conversation. She behaved very much as if she had not just asked someone to kill her, as if she had not just admitted to possessing knowledge of such power. She’d got used to the responsibility, somehow. Once the excitement of such a discovery wore off, it became easier to keep it concealed. After all, it wasn’t the first thing Gamora had kept hidden from people.

They’d been through a lot, Peter realised, as a family.

It was almost unsurprising when reality fell to pieces at their feet. 

It was almost unsurprising when Thanos was resurrected in front of a distraught Gamora.

And it was beyond painful to pull the trigger of a gun aimed straight at her heart. To feel the weight of the weapon disintegrate. To feel the recoil of the weapon reduced to bubbles. And one bubble floated across the space between them, landing against Gamora’s heart, right where Peter had aimed.

It was an injustice that a bubble arrived and not a bullet.

It was an injustice that saw Gamora taken away from Peter when she was still within arm’s reach.

_—NEW YORK—_

Wong had been suddenly uncomfortable in the quiet of the sanctum. He’d never been accustomed to having guests, but the company of Stephen Strange tended to count for several people at once. The operation to break into the facility had gone largely unnoticed by the studious man who instead elected to devote his time to vital protective wards. 

The ageing building was fragile and prone to attack. Without a master, it would surely be preyed upon by the sinister powers that occupied every dimension, invisible from their own reality. Wong had a duty, first to the sanctums and then to the rest of the universe. It was a priority list that made little sense to him, although he followed it regardlessly, as there would be no sanctums to protect if there was no universe for them to be situated in. He’d never questioned the Ancient One, not quite daring to step out of line from his role as librarian. He had also refrained from asking Dr. Strange, although he never expected to receive a reliable answer from the man who was still in training.

His train of thought was interrupted by a knock on the ornate oak door. He stood at the entrance, hearing faint traces of an argued conversation on the doorstep.

“Did you just knock?”

“What else were you expecting me to do? There’s no doorbell.”

“But we were here this morning. And the world’s basically ending.”

“So we might as well spend the time being polite!”

“You know, when my kids aren’t around, I take the opportunity not to make everything into a teaching opportunity.”

“Aren’t you just dad of the-” Wong opened the door an inch to the familiar faces of Clint and Scott who finished muttering ‘year’ under his breath before smiling wearily at the other man. “Wong! We were wondering if you could assist us with something.”

Inside, a fire crackled in the cracked flagstone fireplace, casting a warm glow around the otherwise unlit room. Wong listened patiently to Clint’s hushed plan, mulling over his ability to help and eventually nodding.

“Let me get this right,” he stopped the man eventually, “You want to track the stones remotely and then blindly travel to them, almost certainly facing Thanos himself unprotected.” Clint nodded easily, as if he didn’t see the big deal. Scott leant forward in his seat, clasping his hands together.

“Would it be possible?” he asked, equally as quietly. Wong nodded slowly, holding a hand up to quell the hum of interest from the other men.

“Not definitely, but perhaps,” he warned first before retrieving a narrow book from a nearby shelf. It was old, the only one of its kind. No one knew where it had come from, the information within it had no origin, no primary source, no reference. It had never resurfaced elsewhere. Wong turned over the dusty tome in his hands. “The soul stone. It’s the missing piece in this puzzle. I believe, due to its connection with a being’s inner self, it may be possible to track.”

“And you could send us after it?” Scott asked tentatively, daring to share a hopeful expression with Clint.

“Very possibly,” Wong replied, “But it could be a one way trip, gentlemen. Alternatively, I may be able to set up an advanced portal system that follows the stone from place to place. Of course, this would come with an added danger.” Clint maintained a level expression, unwavering at the mention of danger.

“Which would be?” Scott was unashamedly less calm. He seemed intent on knowing everything there was to know.

“Again, this is all speculation but if the stone was used, the connection could be broken,” Wong guessed, flicking through the pages of the book absentmindedly, “You would be stranded in its previous location and I would be unable to find you as you could be anywhere in the universe. In fact, I would be blissfully unaware of the fact that the spell had even broken.” Clint shrugged almost dismissively and Scott seemed inclined to agree with his relaxed gesture.

“I’m normally a traditional guy,” Clint conceded eventually with a wave of his hand towards the bow propped against his leg, “But I could buy into this magic concept for a little while.”

“And it’s the universe, isn’t it?” Scott replied, with less conviction but determined nonetheless, “Some people have got to take risks to save something so big.” Wong nodded along with their reasoning although felt inclined to remind them of the hazards once more.

“To face a powerful Titan with control of multiple infinity stones would mean almost certain suicide,” he reminded them slowly, “Even the most powerful fighter in the universe would be defeated by the sheer quantity of abilities Thanos could possess by the time I set up this connection.”

“We’d better make a start then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it’s been a while :)
> 
> If you don’t read my other fic, you won’t know that I’ve had nothing but a phone to update from for a couple of weeks. It’s alright for my other story because I write it fairly spontaneously but this one is a little more structured and I wanted to have my plan in front of me to work from.
> 
> It’s a little exposition heavy today (sorry!) but we finally have canon divergence!!! And I’m excited to introduce a little dubious marvel science into the next few chapters. Think entanglement (amatw inspired!) but with a hint of Dr. Strange magic!
> 
> Thank you for being so patient with me :)


	10. 6 in 8 times just put quantum in front of it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gamora falls
> 
> The soul stone awakes
> 
> Wong hears it

_—DEEP SPACE—_

Gamora cast another disdainful glance around her surroundings. It was a customary check, more out of habit than paranoia, bred from a natural distrust of everything and everyone. The source of this distrust was just beyond the doors of the throne room; the man who had brought her up, fed her tales of deception in place of bedtime stories and taught her swordsmanship in place of table manners.

The throne room was more bare than regal, the simple stone seat at its centre a mere status symbol. A ledge above the rest for the most powerful being in the room – hierarchy at its most simple. The walls were still stripped back to the bare metal of the ship, detailed in places with crumbling stone as if someone had tried to give the cold hull the façade of a palace before promptly giving up. If there was one thing Gamora was happy to have picked up from Thanos, it was his distaste for the overdramatic. She’d sooner shoot someone in the head with a blaster than taunt them for hours with a ceremonial knife.

The seat ignored, the young woman had taken a seat on the steps, a familiar position she’d sat in as a girl, patiently listening to the courtroom proceedings between well-known criminals from galaxies away. Nebula had been there too, all too frequently rubbing a hand over a newly acquired piece of metalwork; a new finger perhaps or worse, an entire leg or an eye. It had been a rude awakening into adulthood and one experienced far too soon.

“Gamora, my child,” Thanos had entered the room almost silently, an impressive feat for a man of his size. She looked up with a tired expression ready on her face, only to be met with a small bowl of soup. A peace offering of sorts, she supposed, for taunting Peter in front of her, for tricking him into almost killing her. And then he sat beside her on the stairs, his eyes only grazing the throne for a moment.

“I always hated this room,” she spoke into the silence, placing the steaming bowl to one side untouched. He laughed humourlessly at her side and nodded almost humanly.

“As cold and empty as the people in it,” he recited her youthful complaints back to her, “You’re as naïve now as you were then.” It was Gamora’s turn to sound unamused and she did so effortlessly. Like father like daughter.

“Now, I’ve heard rumours,” Thanos continued to talk, picking the bowl up from the space between them and spinning it absentmindedly in his hands. “Whispers, really, that the location of the soul stone is no longer confidential information. I was hoping to acquire it for myself, any ideas?”

“I looked,” Gamora told the truth at first before allowing the lie to slip freely from her tongue, “But not in the right places.” The empty laugh echoed around the room once more.

“I taught you many things, my child,” Thanos replied eventually and already, Gamora could feel a familiar pit of dread open inside of her, “But you were never good at lying.and you never failed a mission.”

_—NEW YORK, EARTH—_

The sanctum was quiet, save for the occasional rattle of equipment. Scott was nowhere to be seen and Clint sat lazily with his feet hanging over one edge of an armchair in the library as his head rested against the other arm. All attempts to initiate conversation with Wong had turned stale with very little effort on the assassin’s side. The nail in the coffin, as he believed the expression went, had maybe been his final try.

“What’s next?” He’d been watching the older man assemble a variety of mysterious artefacts for some time. For a man of few possessions, as Clint was (bow, arrows, car; the perfect escape plan), he had wondered for some time how one man, or one organisation, accrued so many ancient items. Then again, even Coulson had never got him access to some of the deeper S.H.I.E.L.D. vaults and Clint wasn’t sure if he was disappointed by that. They’d heard stories, the ops teams, about workers in the vaults who’d stared at a magical mirror or some other rubbish with the same backstory. They’d never been the same again, so the story went, not after staring into the magic mirror. And as Clint would put it so eloquently as he listened to these stories on long plane rides into war torn countries; bullshit. Some of the other men hadn’t seemed so sure, mostly some of the newer recruits. They were the ones that never lasted all that long.

No, Clint had his limits. Watching a desperate Thor pull at a hammer somehow sealed in the New Mexico desert had been toeing the line. A hole in the sky leaking aliens had been a whole new world of unacceptable. In Barton’s ideal world there were bad guys and good guys. Both had weapons, both used them on each other. At the end of the day, one side had some number of guys left and the other didn’t. Last in wins.

“Are there magic spells?” he’d asked with a cynical tone, “Eye of newt, decapitated baby head?”

Wong hadn’t liked that, Clint realised when he was relegated to the relative silence of the library. Maybe Scott was better at doing the talking after all. Natasha always had been, when the two of them were working together regularly. Clint was more of a ‘standing in the shadows’ type; always preferring to sit back and let the action unfold naturally rather than orchestrate it with his own, often lacking, charm.

Scott returned after some time, changed out of his suit and with a fresh bandage on his arm. His foot, on the other hand, seemed to be on the mend which was one less thing for Clint to worry about. And one more reason to add to his boredom in the library.

“This connection sounds dodgy as hell,” he observed eventually as Scott gave up trying to wrestle a sentient book from a shelf it was clearly very attached to. He glanced around and took a seat in the other armchair, nodding his head.

“Hank was talking about this thing before I went to Germany; quantum entanglement, I think,” he shrugged and paused for a moment, “They put quantum in front of most things anyway, so it’s a safe bet.”

Now physics was something Clint could try and get his head around. Not that he understood most of the stuff coming out of Stark’s mouth and even less so, Banner’s. But he could follow science in a way that just didn’t come with magic.

“So, you take two particles and they’re entangled,” Scott explained, waving his arms as if trying to conjure said particles, “Don’t ask me how; I never got round to asking Hank. But they’re entangled, right?” Clint nodded slowly and not all that convincingly. Scott ignored him.

“And if you do one thing to the first particle, the second does the same,” he paused for effect, “Instantly. No communication, no time delay. It just knows. Crazy, right?” Clint suspected that many of Scott’s explanations in physics ended with him saying ‘crazy, right?’ in the same sort of tone, although he kept this to himself.

“But the thing is, quantum physics is spooky,” Scott continued, oblivious to Clint’s attempts to amuse himself, “So if you take a measurement on the first particle, the second takes on that value itself. But you just have to accept that because if you measure the second particle-” He gestured with his hands to create a sort of mini explosion “-system collapses. The second particle takes on a new measurement and that old link is gone.”

“So, if Thanos used the soul stone, assuming he has it,” Clint guessed, “The system collapses, with us in the middle of it.” Scott repeated the same explosive hand movement and nodded his head. Clint watched his fingers move apart, cupping an imaginary blast radius of an invisible bomb and imagined the two of them in the centre of it all. 

Somehow, he didn’t think a quantum physics storm had an eye; being at the centre could be just about the most chaotic place to be.

_—DEEP SPACE—_

It was funny how fast first impressions could break down, when you thought about it.

As a child, led away from the culling of her people by a tall, purple being, Gamora would have been forgiven for considering him her saviour. He had selected her above all others, turned her head away so she couldn’t see her parents being murdered in cold blood behind her. And the gift of a dagger, complete with a life lesson that would stay with her every time the jewelled knife balanced perfectly on one finger. The universe in perfect harmony, half of everyone dead.

And the observation she’d made as a child, mentioning it to Thanos one evening as they ate. The throne room, as cold and empty as the people who occupied it. Cold maybe, but empty he was not. She could appreciate that now, seeing the way he knew her as she knew herself, deeply and omnisciently in a way that suggested there was nowhere to hide. And he’d got the first three stones and now a fourth within his reach. That required something, whether it was pure evil or not was another question. But Thanos was not empty, not like the stone throne with all of its gravitas and effortless presence.

Nebula had looked fine, a little angry at her predicament, strung up in a side room like a prize. But she’d looked intact at least.

Gamora had realised, following Thanos to stand to one side, that this was not the case. Her sister, for all intents and purposes, was in pieces. Every joint and gear had been pulled from its rightful place and left to hover, perfectly out of sync in a way that made her seem whole again if viewed from the right angle.

“The location of the soul stone,” Thanos had explained, “Is the key to Nebula’s safety.”

Now, Gamora wasn’t one to be theatrical. But that didn’t make her heartless.

And that left the two of them, adoptive father and begrudging daughter, stood at the base of a craggy cliff edge in the middle of nowhere. It was a region of space where the sky was sparse with stars and devoid of further planets or galaxies. The edge, perhaps, or somewhere so central that everything else had accelerated away towards an ending unknown.

Thanos was quietly happy, with a look in his eyes that was foreign to Gamora. It wasn’t quite satisfaction, although both of them knew when that would rear its head. The universe in perfect harmony, half of everyone dead. But it was close – the soul stone had been more than a headache to him for years. Every other stone was sitting out in the open, waiting for the Titan to reunite it with the other five. But not the soul stone.

Gamora wanted to think that the universe had its reasons for that. That maybe everyone who went stone hunting would struggle to find the one stone that they were least connected to. Because Thanos was as soulless as a being could get, ruthless and cold blooded with a hatred of everyone else in the universe. He would play dice and wager everyone’s lives in a universal game of Russian roulette, all for perfect harmony. All for a universe with half as many voices.

“This day, my child, will be remembered,” he told her as they climbed the glorified rock. She followed dutifully, throwing the dagger up and down behind her back, the weight of it spiralling perfectly into her hands with each toss. If he could sense her impending betrayal, he did not speak of it.

“The half that lives will know this day,” he continued grandly, “Although to me it will only be one in a string of successful days. There is only one day that means anything to me, one second.” He stopped as if she should guess. Needless to say, she didn’t need to and liked the small rush of power she felt by refusing to play his games.

“The snap,” he continued, unfaltering, “Perfect balance.” It was a mantra, an anthem to breathe life into his followers that began to waver. It was the two words that drove him to near madness, the two words that sent him rampaging across a hundred galaxies in search of six stones. Gamora hoped she had a good enough family in the guardians that they would have put her out of her misery if she ever garnered such an obsession. Thanos was a vessel, a puppet fulfilling some unseen force’s bidding, with all of the free will to think he was an original thinker.

The hooded character at the summit of the rock seemed to be waiting for them. His face, mostly obscured by the heavy cloak, was badly disfigured, red and raw and not quite covered by skin anymore. Seeing his warm garment, Gamora only noticed a chilling wind picking up. She wondered if it had been blowing all that time and she just hadn’t noticed. There were reasons to be distracted after all; namely, the dagger behind her back and the man to her side.

“Unlike all other stones,” the figure explained without prompting, “The soul stone demands a price.”

“Anything,” Thanos replied, almost politely as his hands grabbed at thin air with impatience.

“A sacrifice,” the voice was disembodied and well fitting of the face it belonged to, “Of a person loved by the one who seeks the stone.” The three of them had reached a rocky outcrop, complete with crumbling pillars. The wind was unmistakable now, originating from across the pit in front of them and howling through gaps in rocks as if it had a voice. Gamora’s relieved laugh was carried away in the currents of cold air.

“Finally,” she told Thanos as he kept his back to her, “The universe is sending you a message. Don’t you see? You love no one, you care for no one.” He turned then, his eyes moist and cheeks wet with the trail of a single tear.

“You cry because you have failed,” she continued with a growing sense of triumph, “The universe doesn’t want your idea of balance after all.”

“He does not cry for himself,” the hooded figure spoke from behind, his words carrying themselves through the wind untouched, “He cries for the one he will lose.”

At that, Gamora took a step back, shaking her head. She held out a hand to push Thanos away as he reached out for her.

“You don’t love me!” she shouted over the raging wind, “You don’t know love. You’re incapable of it.”

“My daughter, Gamora,” the whispers barely reached her, although the hand at last grasped her wrist, “I am sorry.”

There was an unusual peace to falling so far. The wind did not wrap itself around her or drag its fingers through her billowing hair. Instead, it left her to fall in the calm and silence. The stillness gave her solace, if only for a moment. It gave her time to think and to remember. To thank Peter, however silently and inaudible. To apologise to Nebula, however late and overdue. To bid farewell to a mismatched family, however separated and divided they were.

And Gamora’s body lay untouched on the rocks below the cliff, unseen by Thanos who had turned as she fell and unheard by his retreating figure. But her soul, if there was such a thing, did not linger. It was up in the stars, where she wanted to be. It was home and near family, far from him and far from his perfect balance.

_—NEW YORK, EARTH—_

“I felt it, for a moment,” Wong announced at dinner. Clint, subdued into thought, left it to Scott to answer.

“Felt it?” he repeated questioningly.

“A presence, shall we say, awaking,” the older man explained patiently, “He has it, I am sure. The soul stone is with others of its kind now.” Scott nodded thoughtfully into the bowl of stew in front of him.

“Do you know where?”

“It is impossible, without establishing a connection,” he replied, “I believe we should wait until it moves again. That is when I detect its presence.”

“Do we have that time?” Scott asked, turning to Clint instead. The latter shrugged one shoulder as he ate contemplatively.

“Assuming he retrieved the stone from elsewhere,” he paused to watch Wong nod in agreement, “This movement will likely be to whatever vessel he’s using as a base.” Scott caught on with a quiet hum of agreement.

“The belly of the beast, you might say,” Wong interjected.

“We can find the time then,” Scott said lightly as if he was trying to forget the implications of this connection he was signing up for, “Because I don’t want to end up there unless I have to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My only problem with writing this is that I’m always desperately to get to the Scott and Clint parts so I realise really late that other important infinity war scenes haven’t happened yet :p
> 
> I can’t wait to get the dvd and watch it again, that might make my memory of some of the scenes I’m not changing a little better :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> This is my first MCU fanfiction so I'd really appreciate any feedback, including criticism, because I’ve never tried to write about feelings and a complicated storyline at once!
> 
> I LOVE infinity war a lot although I missed seeing Hawkeye and Ant-Man. I will happily be a nerd over it with anyone in the comments and I always like to hear other people‘s opinions :)


End file.
